


Inter Vivos

by Lomonaaeren



Series: Inter Vivos [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Horcruxes, M/M, Mentors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:23:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 31
Words: 255,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. The Parseltongue incident in second year caused a more violent explosion in Gryffindor House than anyone could have foreseen. Harry, trying to withdraw from everyone except his two best friends, finds himself helped by people he couldn’t have foreseen either, first Snape and then Draco Malfoy. Sometimes, all it takes is one sudden impulsive throwing of a stone for the ripples of change to spread through several lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vividness

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for heeroluva, who made a very generous donation to livelongnmarry. She asked for fic where Harry tries to withdraw from everyone but Snape helps him, and Draco eventually becomes his friend and then his lover. The title is Latin for "between the living."
> 
> Warnings for violence, minor character deaths, child abuse (Harry's canon abuse by the Dursleys), and OOC behavior from Seamus that is eventually explained.

_Chapter One—Vividness_  
  
Harry shook his head as he slowly climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Ron and Hermione had dragged him up to the Gryffindor common room as if they were afraid that someone would be chasing them after what he’d said to the snake, and the way they’d talked about Parseltongue…  
  
 _It’s not as though I knew what it was before I spoke it_ , Harry thought angrily as he pushed open the door. _I didn’t even know it was evil or that that was the reason Slytherin’s symbol is a snake. No one ever tells me anything like that!_  
  
He sighed and shook his head again, then stumbled over to his bed and collapsed in the middle of it. He could just imagine what kind of rumors were going to fly around the school tomorrow, probably saying that he was the Heir of Slytherin and a Dark Lord bent on taking over Hogwarts and all the rest. The mere _thought_ made him tired.  
  
 _I might as well get some rest now, before it starts happening_ , he thought, and closed his eyes. Sleep dived on him like a phoenix, and Harry exhaled once, a silent plea to anyone who might be watching, and who might care, and who might have the power to make it better.  
  
*  
  
Harry woke feeling as though someone had filled his head with cotton. He heard voices yelling, but they drifted as if on the other side of a veil. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and slowly forced them open, against the sticky pressure of sleep that wanted him to keep them shut.   
  
His limbs were too heavy. His mouth was full of a bad-tasting yellow liquid. Harry scowled and spat. What had happened to him? Had he slept twelve hours, like he did the time after the Dursleys made him miss sixteen meals and he stayed awake for two days after they _did_ let him eat wondering if he was going to die from it?  
  
“Harry!”  
  
Someone flung open his curtains and dragged him out of his bed. Harry stumbled. He still couldn’t get his eyes to let him see properly, and his hand shook as he tried to find his glasses.  
  
But then he smelled fire, and that jolted him enough to make him open his eyes.  
  
There was a smoldering pile of—things—in the middle of the room, with a spell wrapped around it that seemed to keep the fire from creeping towards the beds. Harry snatched his wand in one motion and jammed his glasses on his face. He thought he could remember a water charm that Professor Flitwick had taught them the other day if he needed to.  
  
And then he heard the yelling and frowned. Dean was saying, “Seamus, how _could_ you?” Neville was just repeating Seamus’s name over and over again at the top of his lungs. Ron was crowding close to Harry and snapping something at Seamus so low and fast that Harry couldn’t even understand it. Had Seamus caused that fire? Why?  
  
And then he saw that the top of his trunk was open.  
  
Harry froze. Whatever spell had made his sleep heavy, and he thought now it must be a spell, seemed to have come back full force. He strained his eyes, without moving, for a glimpse of his Invisibility Cloak and photo album.  
  
They were gone.  
  
They were _gone._   
  
Harry looked back at the fire again, and clenched his hands into fists. He wanted to curse and cry and swear, and at the same time, he doubted anything would be enough to express his feelings. When he blinked and stared past the smoke, he saw that crumbled bits of his Nimbus were part of the fire, too. The three objects he loved most, gone.  
  
 _At least Hedwig is safe_ , he thought wearily, and closed his eyes. _She would have flown away if Seamus went after her_. He was sure she was smart enough to tell the difference between someone who wanted to pet her and someone who wanted to kill her.  
  
“Why did you do that, Seamus?” Dean hissed the question and stepped past the bed, from the sound of his footsteps, to put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry leaned into the touch for a moment, dully grateful that some of his friends cared enough to protect him.  
  
“Why in the bloody hell?” Ron asked, saying the words really carefully, in a way that Harry knew would make Mrs. Weasley gasp if she heard them.  
  
“Look,” said Seamus, who sounded defensive and gleeful at the same time. _Like Dudley_ , Harry thought, and scrubbed at his eyes. “My mother had a cousin who was a Parselmouth, and they burned all his things and turned him out of the house. It removed the curse he put on the members of his family. These are the only things I had time to burn, but they’re his most precious things. He’ll _have_ to leave Gryffindor Tower now.”  
  
There was a long silence.   
  
“You’re a right idiot,” Dean said.  
  
“ _Expelliarmus_!” snapped Ron, the spell they’d learned in the dueling club that afternoon, and Seamus went flying backwards.   
  
“Harry d-didn’t curse anybody,” Neville said, and for once Harry thought his stammer came from how upset he was rather than from fear. “ _You_ c-cursed somebody. You made him sleep so he wouldn’t hear you when you c-came in and took the things from his trunk, didn’t you?”  
  
“He has to leave,” Seamus repeated, and under the surface of his voice Harry could hear fear. “He _has_ to. He’s a Parselmouth. That just means that he fooled the rest of us all this time and he was evil.”  
  
Harry had heard enough. He opened his eyes and locked them with Seamus’s, and Seamus flinched and folded his arms around himself as if he expected to drop dead just from looking at Harry.   
  
Then Harry shook his head and turned away. He had nothing to say.  
  
*  
  
And he continued to have nothing to say, during the days and weeks afterwards. If asked questions in class, he would reply in a monotone, and usually to say, “I don’t know.” When Professor McGonagall summoned him to discuss the confrontation with Seamus, he shrugged or nodded or shook his head as her questions required. When everyone tried to talk to him during class or in the corridors or at meals, he’d turn away. He especially couldn’t bear the sight of Seamus flinching from him, looking upset most of the time, but triumphant the rest.   
  
Most people were happy enough to leave him alone, given the constant hum of rumors that he was the Heir of Slytherin. Harry knew some of the protective amulets being sold were engraved with his name; they were specifically meant to protect someone against _him_.  
  
He turned away from everyone who tried to talk to him—except Ron and Hermione.   
  
They wouldn’t be left behind. They wouldn’t be left out. They followed him to the lake and sat against the trees whilst he threw stones in, chattering quietly between themselves. They waited for him after McGonagall’s interrogation and escorted him to an empty classroom they’d found where Harry could watch, in silence, as they practiced a few of the spells picked up in the Dueling Club. Hermione insisted on lending him her notes on a few occasions when Harry was too depressed to go to class. Ron owled his mother for protective incantations and placed them around Harry’s bed and trunk himself, giving a dark look at Seamus all the while. Seamus had had a month of detentions with Filch. Neither Ron nor Hermione appeared to think it was enough, but Harry managed to stop them from taking revenge on Seamus. They’d be the ones suspected immediately if any new trouble happened to him, after all.  
  
Harry kept his head down as much as possible and did the bare minimum of what was required of him. Classes and days blurred. He couldn’t even muster any enthusiasm for the plan they’d come up with to find out about the Chamber of Secrets. Of course he was staying at the school for Christmas, because why would he want to go to the Dursleys’? But when Hermione reminded him about the Polyjuice Potion, Harry just stared at her and shrugged.  
  
She exchanged a worried look with Ron, but didn’t mention it again.  
  
*  
  
As always, the Potter brat had learned a harsh lesson from life and responded in an inappropriate way. Last year, he had been marked by danger; he continued to seek it out. And this time he had learned that Gryffindors were not all the shining avatars of light he had thought they were, and responded by shunning most of his friends and acting as if the world had ended.  
  
Severus Snape disliked such behavior. It seemed to him to undervalue the actual end of the world, which would come about when the Dark Lord willed it or the Muggles managed to poison each other in any of a hundred ways. He sometimes held academic debates with himself at night over which way would be nastier.  
  
He first deigned to notice Potter’s stupidly changed behavior during a class session in which the boy stopped halfway through making his potion. He stared at the far side of the room with blank, glazed eyes, his hands trembling slightly. Miss Granger scolded him in a harsh running whisper and tried to smuggle the necessary ingredients into his cauldron, but this particular potion, the Lizard’s Tail, suitable for correcting minor physical deformities caused by hexes, was too complicated and she had to keep most of the attention on her own potion.  
  
Severus circled closer step by step, breaking Longbottom’s confidence into pieces on the way, to give Potter’s dread time to build.  
  
He saw, when he reached the boy’s side, that he might have saved himself the effort. Potter hadn’t noticed him. His eyes were so distant that Severus was reminded of an afternoon when Lily—  
  
 _But the past is another country_ , he thought, and snapped his fingers in front of Potter’s face. The boy started violently backwards and tripped over his own robes. His head hit the cauldron on the way down and knocked it flying. Several of his Slytherins laughed when streaks of green and red covered the faces of the Gryffindors behind Potter.  
  
Severus permitted himself a slight sneer. Yes, it was _potentially_ amusing. But he preferred to save his laughter for genuine irony and keen wit and other things that none of this current crop of Slytherins would understand if they cut their throats on them.  
  
“Potter,” he hissed, stooping down so that the boy would be the main one to hear his words. “What are you _doing_?”  
  
He received no answer, which had become the boy’s usual _modus operandi_. He simply sat on the floor with potion in his hair and stared at Severus.  
  
Severus briefly formed one hand into a fist under the cover of the right sleeve of his robe. He had better things to do than play nursemaid to Potter’s overset balance. But the Headmaster would expect him to do certain things after confronting Potter so dramatically in class, the first of his professors to do so.  
  
“Detention,” he said, straightening, “for your continued disrespect of a professor. And ten points from Gryffindor for your _continual_ incompetence.” He Vanished the inert, harmless potion from the other amoeba-brained idiots with a wave of his wand and turned to look at Potter.  
  
“It wasn’t his fault!” Granger began.  
  
“Ten points from Gryffindor for continually intruding your nose where it is not wanted,” Severus snapped, and lowered his voice for her, too. “And where Potter doesn’t want it either, I imagine.”  
  
She promptly flushed, her eyes widened, and her overlarge front teeth stabbed into her lip as if he had cast the Killing Curse at her. The Weasley boy, of course, glared daggers from the side. Severus wanted to rub at the headache he could feel forming behind his temples. Was it even _possible_ for someone to be so young? Obviously it must be, since he could see the evidence existing right in front of him, but he did entertain certain wild hopes that someday he might wake from the nightmare that the last eleven years had been and discover that he had actual intelligent students.  
  
“I want her to.”  
  
Potter’s words were without fire, uninteresting sounds produced solely to reassure his friend. Granger looked as if the sun had risen, nevertheless. Weasley relaxed slightly as he put a hand on Granger’s shoulder.  
  
And Severus changed several of the calculations he had already made, because if Potter retained a connection to his friends, that might be a way to reach him.  
  
“Detention at seven-o’clock tonight, Potter,” he said. “If you are late, you will discover that _frog_ liver is not the only acceptable ingredient in a Lizard’s Tail Potion.” And he swept away, not waiting for the nod of acknowledgment, which he knew he would not get.  
  
He was almost glad for the task that confronted him now. No one else would break through the barriers of apathy closing Potter off from the world because they pitied him too much. Severus at least did not have that obstacle.  
  
*  
  
Draco bit his lip thoughtfully as he bottled his Lizard’s Tail Potion—perfect as usual, of course—and took it up to the front of the classroom. He’d caught a glimpse of Potter’s face when Professor Snape was scolding him.  
  
It bothered him. Potter had been _alive_ just a few weeks ago, challenging Draco at the Dueling Club as if he had an idea how to fight and then charging in like the bloody hero he was to “save” Finch-Fletchley from that snake. Now he looked as if he didn’t care at all.  
  
That _really_ bothered Draco. Potter should be angry. He shouldn’t weep. That didn’t coincide with Draco’s sense of the fitness of things.  
  
And from the way Professor Snape was sneaking sidelong glances at Potter, he thought much the same thing. Draco made up his mind in that moment that he was going to watch the detention Potter had tonight as closely and as quietly as he could. If Professor Snape brought Potter back to life, that was fine. Draco could have his rival again and everything would be right with the world. He could concentrate on having fun at Hogwarts during the holidays and writing letters to his parents that pretended he was sorry to miss an endless round of boring parties.  
  
If Professor Snape didn’t succeed…  
  
Draco felt his nostrils flare as his lips clamped together in a thin line. Well, then he would have to do what he always did when Vincent and Gregory didn’t understand his orders, which was most of the time: he’d do it himself.


	2. Bloody-Mindedness

  
“Are you scared, Harry?” Hermione’s voice was soft and solicitous, and she had walked with him most of the way down to the dungeons, her hand on his shoulder. Ron had taken one look at Harry’s face and stayed behind.   
  
In this case, Harry thought, and rubbed furiously at his eyes because they were dry and itching, Ron was the smarter one.   
  
“No,” he said, because what else did she think he was going to say, with her right beside him?  
  
The pressure of her hand on his shoulder grew heavier, and she whispered, “Harry, I’m worried about you. Since Seamus burned your things—“  
  
Harry pulled stiffly away and marched like one of Dudley’s toy soldiers to the end of the corridor they were walking in, trying hard to concentrate on his breathing and nothing else.  
  
He _knew_ the anger was there. It burned just under the surface which he’d adopted, cool and contained, to keep it at bay. And it would feel good to let it out, to jump on Seamus and beat him until he was bloody and crying the way Dudley used to do over the slightest punch or slap. A month’s detention with Filch wasn’t enough. The twins had offered to show him creative hexes. Harry could use them. He could—  
  
And then he would have to think about what had really happened, instead of forcing the knowledge away from him whenever it tried to come back. He’d have to really dwell on the fact that he’d never wear the Cloak or see those pictures of his parents again. He wouldn’t fly; he’d already had to quit the Quidditch team.  
  
And—this was the worst part—everyone would know he could be hurt by something like that. So they’d make it worse for him, waiting for him to crack and break and lash out at someone, so they could say that he was a Dark Lord. They’d say it if he went after Seamus, too, Harry knew. Being a Parselmouth wasn’t actually against the rules, but beating up another student was.  
  
 _So Seamus should have got in more trouble for burning_ —  
  
Harry cut the thoughts ruthlessly off. Yes, he _should_ have, but he didn’t, and that was the point. Since when had adults ever been fair to Harry? Never, that was when.   
  
The only tactic he knew that would succeed was the one he’d often used against the Dursleys when another Christmas passed without presents, or when Dudley lied to his parents and blamed Harry for some mess he’d actually caused. He withdrew from them and locked up every emotion except indifference behind stern walls. They got bored when he didn’t cry and scream like a baby and left him alone.  
  
And it had worked here, too. They didn’t hurt him, did they?  
  
 _Because you have nothing left to hurt._   
  
Harry drove the heel of his hand against his forehead and sighed in relief as the threatening pain of tears and rage lurched away again. He had to make the indifference last a little longer here, that was all. When it was Christmas holidays, he could creep into some corner of the school and cast spells at the stone until it cracked. Then maybe it would be all right again, when the new term started and Ron and Hermione came back.  
  
For now, he didn’t care how much his silence and indifference were worrying his teachers. The _point_ was that they worked.  
  
 _Never let anyone see that you’re in pain._  
  
They exchanged protective amulets and whispered about him, but they hadn’t actually _attacked_ him. Harry was smart enough to realize that was a combination of fear and confusion at his behavior, but he wanted to keep the confusion alive. It was the only way to avoid the—  
  
The thing he wouldn’t think about.  
  
And then he was in front of the door to Snape’s office, and it was detention, and everything was going to be fine. Snape would try to hurt him, but not about this. He didn’t care about this. Harry knocked on the door, and then pushed it open at Snape’s briskly barked order with a steady hand.  
  
He looked over his shoulder once, and saw Hermione standing there with her hands over her mouth and tears in her eyes.   
  
Harry smiled a little, because for her he could manage that, and stepped into the room.  
  
*  
  
He came alone, of course. He wasn’t quite stupid enough to come with companions, although Severus heard a choked sob and sniffle that suggested at least one of the tiresome children was out in the corridor.  
  
The Potter brat stared at him with no expression on his face, just as usual, and said, “What am I doing tonight, sir?”   
  
“Do you know why you’re here, Potter?” Severus asked, rising from behind his desk and walking forwards until he was a few feet away from the boy. Potter craned his neck back to search his face, though he showed no surprise. Severus had hoped he would; most of the time, he waved the boy through his detentions in silence, pointing to the prepared cauldrons or stirring rods or ingredients and chopping knife and trusting to Potter’s (meager) intelligence to figure out what needed to be done. It seemed as though delicate tactics would not work.  
  
 _Of course they will not. What about Potter is delicate?_   
  
“Because I didn’t make my potion work right,” Potter said. “Sir.”  
  
If he had not been watching the boy so closely in the last few days, Severus would have thought the late title a mark of insolence. In reality, he knew it came from that brutal complacency the boy carried about him, which made him more than a touch slow on the necessary things.  
  
“For that,” Severus said quietly, lowering his face so that the boy would be forced to lean forwards to hear him, “and for other reasons.” Potter only stared at him, without even a betraying glint of anger in his eyes or a telltale folding of his arms, so Severus continued to push forwards. “Do you not think your reaction out of all proportion to the minor incident that produced it?”  
  
Potter’s shoulders hunched, and Severus hoped for a moment that he would see him lash out. Instead, Potter blinked, then seemed to make a concentrated effort to let the words slide off his shoulders. “That’s why I didn’t ask for more punishment than a month’s detention,” he said. “Sir. What am I doing tonight? Scrubbing cauldrons?” He turned around and looked at the bare walls and shut potions cupboards of the office. “I don’t see them.”  
  
“I am not talking about Finnigan’s detention,” Severus said, and moved closer still. Potter stiffened, but didn’t look at him. “I am talking about your decided _apathy_ in classes, your refusal to learn, and your sparing use of words since the burning of your possessions. Must you let their destruction come home to you so strongly, Potter? They are only _things_. The Dark Lord will take far more precious belongings from you if he has the chance.”  
  
Potter’s lower lip quivered, and he drew a hitching breath. Severus allowed none of the satisfaction he felt to cross his face. _If the boy breaks now, then getting him back to normal will be a relatively easy process._  
  
*  
  
Pressing one eye to a crack in the stone and holding your breath so that dust wouldn’t get down into your lungs was no way to spy on such an important meeting, but Draco really had no choice.   
  
The knowledge his father had passed to him when he started attending Hogwarts included the location of a secret tunnel that ran from one of the walls of the Slytherin common room down to an abandoned, sealed-up storage room just to the side of the current Potions master’s lab. Lucius had warned Draco not to use it except in dire need. Professor Snape was smart enough to cast wards that would alert him to the presence of most spies.  
  
 _Well, this is dire need_ , Draco thought rebelliously. _If Professor Snape doesn’t succeed, then I’ll need to spend time with Potter and yell at him until he responds. And I don’t think he’ll succeed. You have to use emotion with Potter, not dry sarcasm and words more than two syllables long._  
  
He wriggled uncomfortably when more dust drifted into one nostril and held it shut with a finger to keep himself from sneezing. He found it hard to see Potter’s face with his eye pressed to the crack like this, but he didn’t want to look away and then rearrange himself until he found a better position. He might miss something important.   
  
Potter still hadn’t answered Professor Snape. Draco had to resist the bizarre urge to break into the open and give Snape a lecture on how to torment a Potter. For one thing, you’d think Snape would do better than this; he’d been torturing Potter in class for a year now.  
  
For another, Snape would _kill_ Draco if he saw him.  
  
*  
  
 _They were the only things I had from my parents! And the broom was a gift from Professor McGonagall! Maybe they were just things, but they were_ mine! _I didn’t have parents! I didn’t grow up in a normal house! I was—_  
  
That was what Harry wanted to scream at Snape.   
  
And then he remembered that doing that would be giving Snape what he wanted. Harry wasn’t interested in giving stupid adults what they wanted.  
  
Besides, he could feel the anger coiling down in his throat like the snake that Malfoy had conjured in the Dueling Club. If he started shouting, it would _all_ come out, and then Snape would make fun of him for screaming and bawling.  
  
Harry could take a detention and a few classes’ worth of cruelty about different subjects. He couldn’t take sustained teasing about the same thing.  
  
He fixed his eyes on the floor and just waited in silence. Silence was his best defense. Certainly no one in Privet Drive or his primary school had ever known what to do when faced with it, or been determined enough to get past it.  
  
*  
  
Severus felt his eyes narrow. He had been sure that insulting the boy’s possessions would be enough to provoke a spirited defense of his parents.  
  
 _How deep does his apathy go?_  
  
If one tactic had failed, try another. Severus had survived months of spying on the Dark Lord because he had been able to change and flow with the tides of the moment; he did not privilege one plan above the rest. There were still the boy’s friends, the two people he allowed close to him. Anyone with connections to the rest of the world is vulnerable.  
  
 _I should know_ , he thought, and the image of a green-eyed woman would have hovered before him if he had allowed himself that much weakness.  
  
“Did you not think to ask Weasley and Granger for a loan if you missed your possessions that much?” he asked in a falsely innocent tone. “Perhaps they could replace at least the broom, which seems much the least important of the bunch—“ Then he paused thoughtfully. “Of course, the Weasley family might be rather hard-pressed to find the funds, and the Granger family might wonder why one should _fly_ on a broomstick rather than use it to clean with. Muggles are often incapable of understanding such things. I would imagine that Granger has not enlightened them. She does not make herself clear at the best of times.”  
  
The boy quivered as though Severus had stuck his hand in a hot skillet. But he folded his hands behind his back as if to prevent himself from striking out, and said, “The cauldrons, sir?”  
  
Rage and uncertainty and wariness surged together in Severus, mixing into a thick, hot sludge.  
  
 _Too transparent. Too brittle. If he were truly in control of his emotions, then I might praise him, but his mask is ice, and it will break at the worst possible moment: when someone steps on it heavily. We cannot have our invaluable future Savior expelled from the school for trying to murder another student when he was twelve.  
  
Or, for that matter, left bitter and exposed to temptation if someone were to whisper the right words about the Dark Arts into his ear.   
  
I must break him now. _  
  
Severus paused a moment to tell himself that his urgency might be misplaced—there was no predicting the future, or how a boy might change between one month and another—but then remembered the truth. If he were wrong, the price to pay would be much smaller than if he were right and did nothing.  
  
Swiftly, so that the boy would not have time to prepare himself, he dropped to one knee in front of Potter. Potter stared at him with his mouth open, and then shut it with a click. Sweat gleamed at the corners of his eyes, which were drawn tight in intense suffering.  
  
 _More suffering than the loss of a cloak and a book is worth. More, even, than the loss of an expensive broom._  
  
Severus had known such grief before, when he had lost one of his only remaining photographs of Lily. And that caused a connection to spring to life in his mind, gleaming and linking together two disparate conclusions in a cord of intuition.  
  
 _If they were his only reminders of his parents—  
  
They should not be, but if they were—  
  
That would account for his reaction. And it would account, perhaps, for the tactic he has adopted. He has faced suffering like this before. He had enemies before he came to Hogwarts. The candidates are sparse. _  
  
Calculations had ever guided his words, but there were few he had reason to be prouder of than the ones behind what he said now.  
  
“This is not like the other times,” he murmured. “You _can_ take revenge on Finnigan. You are not powerless, at least not if you find the right allies. Do it carefully, do it subtly, and do it slowly, and no one will notice. I can help you.” His voice hardened, and he made it ring like armor dropped on stones. “ _If_ you come out from behind that infernal apathy and convince me I should.”  
  
*  
  
Draco suffered the strange and terrible urge to applaud.  
  
 _Yes, that’s the way to handle Potter. Give him permission to express his emotions and exempt him a bit from those tight Gryffindor rules, and he’ll run free._  
  
Of course, the next moment Draco slumped against the wall as conflicting emotions seized him. He was irritated at the notion that Professor Snape was _helping_ Potter, rather than mocking him out of his idiocy. Draco would have preferred a way that stirred up Potter’s anger, because if Draco lost control of his emotions and acted stupid around Potter—he knew he did, because his father told him so—then at least he could make the other boy lose his control in return.  
  
And he was jealous.  
  
 _I’m not_ , Draco thought in the next moment, his automatic response whenever someone had accused him of jealousy in the past. What did he have to be jealous of? He was richer than anyone who could compete with him, and more cunning, and someday he was _going_ to be more powerful.  
  
But maybe because there was no one around to hear his denials, the next moment the truth recoiled and came back at him.   
  
_Yes, you are. You’re jealous that Professor Snape found a way to get through to Potter when you didn’t. You’re thinking of the way that you could have insinuated yourself into his good graces if you approached him with ideas about revenge and maybe—_  
  
 _Maybe even his friendship._  
  
Down in the part of himself where he carried things that he admitted to no one, Draco knew he was bitter that Potter had refused his friendship. It made him a _loser_. And it increased his chances of being on the opposite side of someone very powerful, which he knew wasn’t a good thing. Yes, the Dark Lord was powerful, but Potter had killed the Dark Lord when he was a baby, so maybe he was stronger.  
  
And, well, Potter had seemed nice. And certainly more intelligent than Gregory and Vincent. Draco would have liked having a friend like that.  
  
Swallowing his jealousy—which burned like bile, and which he wasn’t going to admit to anybody, ever—Draco pressed his eye to the crack in the wall again.  
  
*  
  
Harry stared up at Snape, horribly afraid that his mouth was open and his eyes were bulging. And if his eyes were bulging, then there might be wetness in the corners of them—  
  
He shut them hastily. Meanwhile, his mind was whirling and diving among the words that Snape had pronounced.  
  
 _He’ll help me take revenge on Seamus. And no one will know, because I’m sure he could prevent anyone from knowing something like that. He’s scary enough. He’s strong enough. He—_  
  
Harry’s thoughts shuddered and jerked to a halt.  
  
 _And he wants something in return. Everyone does, except Ron and Hermione and Hagrid. He’ll want me to break down, and then he’ll be able to taunt me about it. That has to be it. Otherwise, he’d never care that I was like this. I’m not making any more mistakes in Potions than I normally do._  
  
Harry tried to open his eyes, and then discovered he still might start crying out of pure rage and couldn’t trust himself to do so. Instead, he kept his voice steady as he said, “You would take revenge on another student for the student you hate the most? Don’t make me laugh. Sir.”  
  
He heard a slight shuffling sound, as if Snape had moved a leg or an arm in surprise. He didn’t see what was going on, because he wasn’t looking. He wasn’t looking until Snape had gone away again.  
  
Yes, it was a pathetic defense, but sometimes it had spared him some things when he was with the Dursleys, like seeing his uncle’s savage grin as he promised that Harry wasn’t going to have any food for the next two days.  
  
“I have no particular reason to care for Finnigan,” Snape said a moment later. His voice was very careful. Harry wondered why, and then smiled bitterly to himself. Snape knew he wouldn’t get what he wanted if he didn’t persuade Harry. “And more should be done about the burning of your possessions than has been.”  
  
Harry almost opened his eyes again, simply in disbelief. _What_?  
  
He did laugh.   
  
Snape seemed to understand the laugh the right way, because he continued in a hard but meditative tone, without getting angry. “He burned your Invisibility Cloak, Potter. No ordinary spell can do that. I had tried—that is, I have seen similar magic used against it whilst it was in Dumbledore’s possession. The flames slid aside. However, certain powerful and ancient Dark magic spells could manage it. Finnigan looked it up in a book or perhaps was taught it by his mother, who I understand claims to have a Parselmouth in the family.” His voice descended for a moment into a strange whisper. “Fools, to have the gift near them and not cultivate it.”  
  
Harry opened his eyes then, but he kept them trained on the floor. He could see the wash of Snape’s robes and boots. He was still kneeling down in front of Harry, as if he actually wanted to be on the same eye level.  
  
That confused Harry the most, maybe. He’d never had an adult who wanted to treat him as an equal. They were always quick to point out how they knew more than Harry and were smarter than he was, even McGonagall and Dumbledore.  
  
“That means,” Snape went on, his voice back, “that a student has used Dark Arts within the school, and _was not punished for it_. Detention is not the right punishment for that crime. Expulsion is.”  
  
“But if we tell someone—” Harry blurted, hope rising within him for the first time in days.   
  
“We have no evidence now,” Snape countered coolly. “The ashes of the fire are long dead, and Finnigan has used his wand many times since then, meaning that the _Priori Incantatem_ spell, which the Aurors use to detect past illegal magic, would be hard put to it to reveal the culprit spell.”  
  
“Then there’s nothing we can do.” Harry shut his eyes again. He hoped Snape would let up on this ridiculous idea of helping Harry soon. He _really_ needed to go somewhere and scream. He didn’t think he’d be able to wait for Christmas hols after all.  
  
“We have no evidence,” Snape repeated, “except the evidence of logic. And if no one would believe us, did we carry the tale of the crime to them, then it remains for us to carry out the punishment ourselves. Not expulsion, but the making of Finnigan’s life _considerably_ uncomfortable.”  
  
And then Harry couldn’t help it. He opened his eyes and tilted his head back so that his gaze would meet Snape’s.  
  
*  
  
Severus knew he had won the moment the boy said _we_. For someone as isolated as Potter had made himself, this victory could not be overestimated.  
  
But it would not do to show his triumph too soon. He must confirm his possession of Potter’s mind and attention first.  
  
His eyes were still vulnerable—too vulnerable. Severus did not like that, but he accepted it as a necessary stage on the road to recovery.   
  
And if the boy went back to normal this way, he would put himself in Severus’s power. He could hardly brag about the revenge on Finnigan, except perhaps to his two best friends, without revealing that he had agreed with subjecting another student to danger. And Severus could use the knowledge in the future to manipulate Potter, perhaps to urge him to be less annoying.  
  
At the same time, he would obtain the chance to test some of his more recent experimental potions.  
  
Yes, it was a good bargain all around.  
  
“Wouldn’t someone notice?” Potter whispered, in a voice so timid that Severus could barely hear him. He wanted to frown, except that any negative sign at the moment was likely to make the boy move further away from him. _How has he become so fragile? Or was he so all along and I never noticed it_? “I mean, if Seamus gets sick or something, wouldn’t they look for potions?”  
  
“I have been working on certain common potions so as to make them undetectable,” Severus said smoothly. “And others that are new and which no one would know how to test for, or sense if they did.”  
  
Still Potter hesitated. “I don’t—I mean, I don’t want to really hurt him. I mean, put him in a lot of pain or kill him.”  
  
 _Spare me from Gryffindor martyrs_. “I have no intention of doing either to Mr. Finnigan,” Severus murmured. “I only want to make him suffer the way that you suffered, Mr. Potter. Surely that is acceptable?”  
  
The boy hesitated, and swallowed. Severus waited patiently. He could almost feel the delicate balance in Potter’s mind ticking back and forth. There was nothing he could do at this point to influence it that he had not already done.  
  
Besides, it was another double victory. If the boy refused, then Severus had still broken through his apathy and would encourage some lesser form of revenge. If he accepted, then Severus had put him in touch with a slightly darker side of his nature, one that had the potential to make him less annoying through Severus’s sheer knowledge of its existence, because it would make him less like James.  
  
 _James would say that all his pranks were in fun, that he never intended to hurt anyone, or that he hurt only those who deserved to be hurt. For his son to see the edge of moral wrongness to this and yet pursue it makes him different._  
  
It was, then, that Severus found himself considerably more interested in a Potter’s moral decisions than he had expected to be.  
  
Perhaps it was because Severus was the first one who had offered him an end to this exhausting pretence; perhaps it was simply because Potter had been pushed too far and was tired of not fighting back against anyone but the Dark Lord or Draco. Whatever it was, he dipped his head and said, “Yes. I—I want to make him hurt as much. But I don’t want anyone to suspect us,” he added quickly.  
  
Severus could have concealed a smile then, did his face naturally form them. _Us. Yes, I am winning him_.  
  
“Very well,” he said. “It will take me a week at least to add the correct ingredients to the potion that I am brewing now. Do nothing until you hear from me.”  
  
Potter gave him a single deep glance and nodded once. Then they stood in silence for a moment before he asked, “Can I go now, sir?”  
  
 _His respect is more prompt this time_. “Yes,” Severus said. “Remember what I have said. Do not tell even your best friends, or it is possible that they would talk you out of it or inform Dumbledore.”  
  
Potter snorted with what sounded like bitterness. “Yeah. Hermione would do that first thing.” He hesitated, then added, “Thank you, sir,” and slipped out of the room like a shadow.  
  
Severus stood watching him go with a twist of his lips. Potter had proven more _interesting_ than anticipated. And Severus felt the mental capacity for another hobby than brewing and tormenting students, now that it had been eleven years since he had last spied against the Dark Lord.  
  
At the moment, he had other business to attend to.  
  
*  
  
Draco rested a fist against the stone and barely resisted hammering at it whilst loosing a scream of frustration. He was next to Professor Snape’s office, though, and that wouldn’t be the wisest thing.  
  
 _Snape_ was going to help Potter in his revenge. _Snape_ was going to get the chance to have Potter show him something other than anger, perhaps even to laugh with him over what would happen when Finnigan came into contact with Snape’s experimental potions.   
  
Snape, and not Draco.  
  
 _I want to. This is the kind of thing I’m good at. This is the kind of thing that would make Potter into my friend._  
  
For a moment, Draco entertained wild fantasies. Maybe he could bring a different idea about revenge casually up in front of Potter, explain how he disliked the burning of valuable wizard property like Invisibility Cloaks, and say that he wanted to help—  
  
 _But then I’d have to say why I thought of revenge only now, and not when it first happened. And I know he’d be suspicious. Would he really have any choice, with the way I’d have to approach him?_  
  
Draco was so occupied in pondering that he didn’t notice the soft footsteps moving slowly towards him. But he _did_ notice when the wall suddenly vanished and he fell through into Snape’s office.  
  
And it was impossible to escape the glittering black eyes that bent on him a moment later, or the wand that waved casually and stiffened his limbs in a Body-Bind.  
  
*  
  
Harry made his way slowly upwards to Gryffindor Tower from the dungeons, rubbing his cheeks and feeling like someone who had had a months-long nightmare.   
  
Had he really just _done_ that? Had he told Snape he wanted to take revenge on Seamus, and had Snape _agree_? Had Snape offered in the first place?  
  
But yes, it had happened, because for the first time since the burning Harry felt his chest expand with something other than rage, and he was thinking that maybe, by the end of the school year, it wouldn’t be so intolerable to see Seamus’s face around after all. He wouldn’t kill him. Snape wouldn’t dare kill him, he thought suddenly, because he had to know that Harry would know if he did it. And Snape, unlike Lockhart, wasn’t an idiot.  
  
And, in the meantime, he had something that was secret from Ron and Hermione.  
  
That made him uneasy, but it was important, as well. They had followed him so closely, and been so loyal. Harry appreciated that, he really did. But there were times he just wanted to be _alone_ , the way that he was when he lay in his cupboard at the Dursleys’, and to have thoughts that they didn’t immediately see reflected on his face or demand from his mouth.  
  
He’d make it up to them. He thought he could start talking normally and participating in classes again, now.   
  
But right now, he really was alone. They weren’t expecting him back from the detention anything like so soon.  
  
Harry immediately began slipping through the corridors in the direction of an old classroom on the second floor that he sometimes used as a hiding place when he was wandering the castle in his Invisibility Cloak.  
  
 _Which you don’t have anymore, and you’ll never have it again_.  
  
Harry knew what was going to happen, then, and sped up. He had barely reached the classroom and shut the door behind him with a locking spell when the tears drove him to the floor.  
  
He knelt there and cried, small sounds of intense, fierce suffering which were old friends after a childhood of being in the cupboard. Now and then he pounded a fist on the floor and mixed a scream with the tears. That was a luxury, because he couldn’t scream at Privet Drive, or the Dursleys would have heard him.  
  
Now, though, he had a grain of comfort. He knew the storm would pass. He knew someone would help him get back at Seamus.   
  
It was worth the tears and the mingled feeling of shame and comfort that followed after, as he dried his face and dusted off his robes, knowing that.  
  
*  
  
Severus watched indifferently as Draco sprawled on the floor, his attempts to struggle made impossible by the spell that Severus had used on him. Then he moved him back to his feet with a sudden, nonverbal spell that he knew would make the room spin terrifyingly for Draco, and began to stalk in a circle around him.  
  
Draco’s eyes tried to turn sideways to follow him, but so complete was the spell that they couldn’t move. Then he tried to free one hand, as if he thought he could reach up and turn his head with that. Severus resisted the impulse to bare his teeth in amusement. The boy would be a compendium of twitches by the time Severus released him, if he kept this up.  
  
“I know that you were listening to my conversation with Potter,” Severus began. “I sensed you the moment you arrived in the room.” That was not true—in fact, it was about halfway through the conversation that he had heard the soft chime in his head that announced an intruder was close; he had been too involved in his mindwork with Potter to hear it before—but Severus had never known truth to serve as many purposes as deception. “You will tell me, I suppose, what you were doing there.” He folded his arms and looked bored.  
  
Now a ripple was running up Draco’s jaw. Severus pretended not to notice for a few moments, simply for his own entertainment, before he released him. Draco moistened his mouth with a sweep of his tongue and licked his lips, as if they were bruised, then started speaking.  
  
“The time you gave him detention wasn’t a secret, sir,” he said. “And I was curious about what you would say to him.”  
  
 _He knows that it is the part of the weaker person in a conversation to be honest_. Severus approved. He had watched Draco last year and the first part of this one skeptically, wondering if Lucius had actually taught the boy anything worth knowing, or if he had groomed him to be a political parasite without a sense of the dance of loyalties and strengths that he would have to master, did he want to be more than a charitable sponsor. But if Draco understood power dynamics, then he had a start in life at being both a true Slytherin and an independent wizard.  
  
“You have always been too interested in Potter for your own good,” Severus said. “Why?” It irritated him that he had never known. So far as he could see, Potter and Draco had arrived at Hogwarts with their rivalry already established, and it went deeper than mere House conflict.  
  
Draco looked for a moment as if he wished he could close his eyes. Then he said, “I wanted to be his friend on the train. He rejected me. For _Weasley_.” The seething resentment behind his voice told Severus several particulars of the conversation that he doubted Draco would have the courage to repeat. “And so I want to make him regret that. But he _doesn’t_!” The words were bursting out of Draco now, in irregular pulses that made Severus glad he had bound the boy. Draco would probably be pacing about and breaking vials if he were not. Lucius’s son did not have as much control as he thought he had. “He _never_ does! But at least he’d fight with me. Until the last few weeks. So I wanted him to fight with me again, and I thought I’d have to sting him back to life if you couldn’t.” Then he drew a deep breath and looked up at Severus. “But you did. Please, sir, can I help you with your revenge? I want to—I want to do something to make Potter notice me.”  
  
 _A weakness. A weakness deep-seated_. Severus barely resisted the temptation to shake his head in exasperation. He could try to guide Draco around this, to counsel him to pay no attention to Potter, but he doubted it would work. Draco would agree on the surface, and perhaps think he was agreeing in the depths, but the moment the opportunity presented itself, he would go back to tormenting the boy.  
  
 _He has potential, both as an intriguer and as a brewer. I would not see him waste it in useless squabbles with Potter. If his feelings grow strong enough, then they might disrupt even my classroom_. Severus had not missed the stray ingredients that Draco would sometimes toss into Potter’s cauldron. In moderation, he approved of them—a brewer needed to know how to work under extraordinarily difficult conditions, including the interference of jealous rivals—but the pace of the meddling had increased since last spring, and sooner or later Draco would cause a disaster.   
  
_If not halted, then this might grow into an obsession. I would not see Draco grow free of Lucius’s shadow only to fall under Potter’s_. The mere thought made Severus want to curl his lip in disgust. He had spent all his time at school under the Marauders’ shadow, forced to respond to them whether he wanted to or not, and to tolerate the way that Lily sometimes associated with Pettigrew or Lupin.   
  
_On the other hand, if I include him as part of Potter’s training in revenge, then he may be satisfied with the friendship he wanted in the first place and stand straight and proud on his own outside it. Then he would see that he is good at things Potter is not, such as Potions, and stop trying to compete with him in Quidditch, at which he will be forever inferior._   
  
Severus cocked an eyebrow. “And how would you suggest that I explain your sudden impulse to help to Potter?”  
  
“Tell him the truth,” Draco said, and if his eyes weren’t confident his voice was. “Tell him I listened in and that as punishment for eavesdropping you’re making me work on the potions with you.” He twitched as if he wanted to lean closer. “And you can say that you’ve bound me with a Secrecy Spell not to tell anyone else about the revenge you’re getting on Finnigan, in case he thinks I’d trot away and owl my father about it.”  
  
Faster than Draco’s frozen eyes could move, Severus leveled his wand at his heart. “And would you allow me to put a Secrecy Spell on you?”  
  
Draco didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”  
  
 _It is well that I caught this now_ , Severus thought, past his stunned astonishment. _If Draco were willing to risk so much for the mere chance of being close to Potter, then what might he not do in the future? What bad decisions might he not make, simply for the rush of Potter’s attention?_  
  
“Very well,” Severus said, and chanted the Latin aloud, so that Draco could know which version of the Secrecy Spell he was choosing, and why. “ _Confuto et creo furias_!”  
  
Draco gasped as a white whirlwind surged out of Severus’s wand and wrapped him head to foot in chains more binding than the spell he was already under. Severus watched closely, seeing tiny darts of forked lightning stick into Draco’s hands, throat, tongue, and face—those instruments he might use to tell someone else about Potter or Severus’s revenge. Then the white light condensed into a tight cap around Draco’s head and blended with his hair.  
  
Severus nodded, satisfied .There were several versions of the Secrecy Spells, which were not Dark Arts as long as the victim agreed to them. This particular one enforced silence by scattering the victim’s thoughts in all directions if he tried to talk or write about the subject to anyone outside the chosen group. Enough attempts to break the silence would drive him mad.  
  
From the way Draco looked at him a moment later, he knew that very well.  
  
And yet, he still said, “Thank you, sir.”  
  
Severus inclined his head and released him from the Body-Bind. “Meet me in a week’s time.” In this matter only, he would not give Draco privileges over Potter. They would need to be handled in subtly different ways, but if he elevated one in treatment above the other, then the second was likely to distrust him.  
  
Severus would not self-sabotage his new hobby.  
  
*  
  
Draco felt gingerly at his head as Professor Snape released him back into the dungeon corridor. He thought he could feel the pressure of the Secrecy Spell like a crown. If he opened his mouth to speak about Potter or Professor Snape, it tightened warningly.  
  
He didn’t care.  
  
Vincent and Gregory would demand where he had been when he got back to the common room, and Blaise probably would, too. Draco would have to think of a good lie for them.  
  
He didn’t care.  
  
His father wanted a letter about the things that Draco had learned in the last week, and whether he had finally pulled ahead of the Mudblood in his studies. He would have simple words to say about Draco’s delay in answering that would make Draco feel as though he had been sliced apart by knives inside.  
  
He didn’t care.  
  
Something _new_ was starting, and he was part of it.  
  
He didn’t know why he felt that so strongly, when he hadn’t felt it when he first came to Hogwarts or when Potter rejected his friendship or when the Chamber of Secrets was opened.   
  
But it was there, and it was real.


	3. Glimpses

_Chapter Three—Glimpses_   
  
Harry leaned hard on the practice broom and guided it around in a circle, bearing down towards the ground. Ron chased him, yelling something that Harry couldn’t make out, or at least wouldn’t let himself listen to, in the rush of the wind. He shut his eyes for a moment, reveling in the flight.  
  
He had withdrawn from the Quidditch team after Seamus burned his broom, and he didn’t regret that decision. Playing on the team would only give people more opportunities to hurt him, the way that Dobby had broken his arm with the Bludger a few weeks ago. But he could still _fly_.   
  
The skill sang in his blood and thrummed through the muscles in his legs. It felt wonderful. Missing some practice didn’t mean he’d lost it. Harry pulled up at the end of his wild dive and laughed.  
  
Ron landed beside him and looked at him cautiously from the corner of his eye. “You were going pretty fast there, mate.”  
  
Harry turned to face him. He had gradually shown Ron and Hermione small signs in the last few days that he was awakening from his apathy, but he hadn’t wanted to show them an overnight change, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to explain it. Snape’s order to keep their revenge secret sounded as loudly as the rush of blood in his head.  
  
 _Now, though, I think I can tell them. Let Ron think the flight did it._  
  
“I know,” he said, and took care to make his voice calm and normal. He saw Ron start as if electrified, a hopeful smile touching his lips. For a moment, Harry felt awful. He didn’t want to lie to his best friends.  
  
But on the other hand, what he’d told Snape was true. Hermione would insist on a different means of revenge against Seamus, if they took any at all, and then it was extremely unlikely Harry would ever see him punished.   
  
He _needed_ this. But as long as he kept it secret, it was like he didn’t need it, and so no one could know about it and try to take it away from him.  
  
“I’m feeling better,” he said, in answer to Ron’s silent question, staring at the ground for a moment and tracing a foot over it. Wind whipped past his head, and he shivered. It always felt colder on the ground than it did in the air, but in the air, he had the speed to think about. “I’ve decided that I can’t change it and McGonagall was only ever going to give a month’s detention to Seamus anyway, so…” He exhaled hard. “So why spend so much time worrying about it?”  
  
Ron flung his arms around him almost hard enough to knock him off the broom. Harry grunted, then hugged him back and tried to ignore the small feeling of guilt. _I have Ron and Hermione as friends and Snape to help me plan revenge. Those are different things. I don’t have to feel like Snape’s replacing them._  
  
And if he sometimes felt like having secrets from his friends made him more evil, more Slytherin, so what? He was sure everyone felt like that sometimes.  
  
 _Yeah, but it’s not everyone the Hat wanted to put in Slytherin, and not everyone who speaks Parseltongue._  
  
Harry pushed the thought away, and listened to Ron’s happy chatter instead. It was so much easier.  
  
*  
  
Severus narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at the thick purple liquid in the cauldron, which by this time had cooled into a useless mass. He prodded it with a ladle and sneered. Yes, it was gelatinous and nothing else. It might accomplish its purpose if they could convince Finnigan to swallow it, but Severus didn’t think the boy would be enthusiastic about it if he saw it quivering on his plate.  
  
He Vanished the mess to the bottom of the lake. The giant squid took some pleasure in feeding on the remains of Severus’s ill-fated potions. If they sometimes made its tentacles lengthen or its skin pulse with odd and glowing colors, that was no matter; Severus enjoyed the ability to observe the potions’ effects from a safe distance, and the squid never disdained another meal.  
  
He turned to glance at the shelves near him and choose the potion that he should introduce Potter and Draco to tomorrow. He had hoped to create a new one in the week he had chosen, but he had never been particularly skilled in working to a deadline; he had to have time to work on the brewing in the privacy of his own head and test the probable results against the vast array of his memorized knowledge, if he could not have the chance to experiment in his cauldrons. What seemed to his enemies like sudden bursts of genius came, in truth, from long, silent weeks of work.   
  
Of course, Severus was careful never to discourage the impressions that formed the other way. Being thought a genius had many pleasant repercussions.  
  
At last he picked up a small silver vial and elevated it to his eye level, smiling grimly. The green liquid inside gurgled once, like a frog inflating its throat, and then settled.   
  
_Not such a bad choice after all._  
  
He turned his mind then towards the way he would manage the meeting between Potter and Malfoy when they arrived in the office tomorrow. He would have to be careful, or his hobby would self-destruct before it truly began to function, ruined by Draco’s aggressive interest and Potter’s defensiveness.  
  
Still, he had done harder things before. His fingers wandered down to his right arm and the long scar that curved there, opposite the Dark Mark.   
  
_At some point I shall need to repay Lucius for that little adventure.  
  
This may be a way to start. _  
  
Severus was pleased. The more he thought about the situation with Potter and Draco from all angles, the more purposes it appeared to accomplish.  
  
*  
  
Draco watched Potter with concerned eyes as he came down from Dumbledore’s office, his face white with shock. He had been the one to discover the Finch-Fletchley boy and the Gryffindor ghost—what was his name? Some stupid nickname referring to his hanging head that Draco never bothered to remember—paralyzed after the Chamber of Secrets was opened. Already people were spreading the rumor that Potter was the Heir of Slytherin.  
  
Draco wanted to punch them for being so stupid. (At least Gregory and Vincent didn’t say things like that, because Draco had ordered them not to). Did anyone really think that someone with that open a face could be a liar?  
  
“Of course,” squealed Daphne Greengrass when Draco brought it up in the Slytherin common room that night. “It just means that he’s a _really good_ liar.” Her eyes sparkled in a way that made Draco think she would rather enjoy being cornered by Potter in a dark corridor and lied to.  
  
“He’s not that good,” Blaise disagreed, leaning back in his chair and yawning elaborately. He would someday be a master at deception, Draco thought, but for right now, he used the yawn too often. He needed other ways to mask his emotions, like the ones Lucius was suggesting in his letters to Draco. “If he were, he would have arranged to be far away from the scenes of the attacks, so someone else could find them.”  
  
“But if he were behind them,” Pansy said, and folded her hands together in a way that she assumed made her look mature and grown-up, and which _really really_ didn’t, in Draco’s opinion, “then of course he couldn’t get far away before they were discovered.”  
  
“A good liar would find a way around that,” Blaise said inarguably. “A powerful wizard could.” He paused. “The Dark Lord would.”  
  
As always, the mere mention of the Dark Lord produced a delicious silence in the common room. Draco looked around. He knew that some people were shivering with genuine fear and others with the thrill that Draco himself got when he contemplated the drop from the Astronomy Tower, but he hadn’t learned to tell which was which, yet.  
  
“So is the Dark Lord Slytherin’s heir?” Daphne asked.  
  
“He is?” Vincent glanced up from where he was struggling with his Charms homework.  
  
“No, he’s not,” Draco said authoritatively, and Vincent grunted and went back to his work.  
  
“How do you know?” Blaise sneered at him. “No one really knows who it is.”  
  
“We’ve just been suggesting Potter,” said Draco. “And it’s true that he did find the Petrified people each time.” His stomach squirmed uncomfortably, which he told himself was ridiculous. He and Potter weren’t friends _yet_. He was sure Potter had no trouble talking all sorts of rubbish about _him. I can feel guilty after tomorrow_ , he thought, and plowed on. “He’s just as likely a candidate as the Dark Lord.”  
  
“But the Dark Lord wants all the Mudbloods dead.” Pansy had her arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes glowed, and suddenly Draco was sure she was someone for whom the thrill of the Dark Lord’s name was wonderful. “He probably has something to do with this. Reaching out beyond the grave, to command the monster!”  
  
A profound stillness enveloped the room for a moment. Draco sat back, looking absently over Pansy’s head, because a new perspective had come to him.  
  
 _If I’m Potter’s friend, am I the Dark Lord’s enemy?_  
  
“What are you thinking about, Draco?” It was Blaise, his eyes bright.  
  
Draco snapped back to reality and shook his head. “Just that it seems awfully coincidental for Potter to always be first on the scene,” he drawled. “And that I’m tired—of puzzles I can’t solve, and in general. I’m going to bed.”  
  
It was a weak bit of wordplay, but it earned him a chorus of “Good night, Draco” from most of them and grunts from Gregory and Vincent. Draco went to get ready for bed, the new thought following him and taunting him.  
  
 _It’s not as though I have to make a decision right now_ , he finally thought, as he slid into bed and pulled the covers around him. _I don’t even know if Potter will accept me._  
  
But the possibility that he might caused, finally, a thrill for Draco that the Dark Lord’s name could never produce.  
  
*  
  
“Enter.”  
  
Harry still hesitated before he pushed open the door to Snape’s office, because he had no idea what would really happen here. Would Snape tell him that the experimental potions still needed to be worked on? Would he offer to demonstrate the potions on Harry? Would—  
  
Harry took a deep breath and assumed as stoic a demeanor as he could when he stepped into the room. After all, stoicism seemed to be what Snape preferred from him. Harry doubted that he would have spoken as seriously as he had last time if Harry had been whinging and sniffling like a baby.  
  
Snape stood on one side of an immense table that Harry hadn’t seen in the office before, with a wire cage in the middle of it. A white rat scrabbled in the middle of the cage, tapping its paws against the sides and raising its nose as if it could sniff a way out through the ceiling. Snape had a silver vial in his hand and absolutely no expression at all on his face.  
  
And beside him stood Malfoy.  
  
Before he had made a conscious decision to do it, Harry was running for the door. Hot tears burned and stung his eyes, but he had no intention of letting them fall until he was alone. He _knew_ it. Snape’s offer _was_ too good to be true, and now he would humiliate Harry in front of bloody Draco Malfoy.   
  
_Why do I ever trust anybody but Ron and Hermione_? he thought, his chest aching with rage. _Why do I ever trust an adult? All they ever do is hurt me and betray me and lie to me—_  
  
And then the office door slammed in front of him, and Harry realized he had been anticipated. He halted. Over his rushing, angry breaths, he could hear the clear click of a locking spell.  
  
The rage raced through him again, but this time, it left a hollow behind. He felt almost calm, though it was a fragile, straining sort of calm, the kind he had when he realized he couldn’t escape a beating by Dudley and that Dudley would be praised by his parents later for “helping keep the freak under control.”  
  
He turned around and lifted his head, folding his arms. They could try to humiliate him, but at least he’d face them down and lessen the pleasure they’d get from it.  
  
*  
  
Severus had locked the door without thought; Potter was not bound by the Secrecy Spell as Draco was, and Severus did not want him spreading word of what they had intended to happen here if he had changed his mind.   
  
But he realized, when Potter turned around and gave them the best version of the blank, indifferent face he could muster after a week of going without, that he had misjudged the situation.   
  
Severus had thought it best that the boys come upon each other without warning, so that he could see a natural, unpremeditated reaction and know how great the enmity between them really was on Potter’s side. But, of course, Potter was intelligent enough to realize that Draco’s presence here meant _he_ would have had some kind of forewarning. They were not equals after all. Potter was too used to this situation, after Severus’s favoring of his Snakes in class. So he built a tight wall of uncaring and tried to convince them both that they were on the other side of it.  
  
He would need to work to make things up to Potter, but at the moment, he resented that less than he might have. It was his own fault.  
  
Draco took an impetuous step in Potter’s direction, but Severus put a hand on his shoulder and held him still. Draco shivered under his touch like a restive horse. Still, he understood a moment later, to judge from the reluctant jerk of his head. When Severus moved towards Potter, he remained behind.  
  
“Tell me your thoughts, Potter,” he said, gently enough, deliberately choosing a normal walk that did not sweep his robes behind him instead of the glide he usually affected. The point now was to gain Potter’s trust rather than to put him off. “Why have you thus retreated? Why do you believe Draco is here?”  
  
“To watch my humiliation,” Potter said, and he had crushed the emotion flat in his voice. Severus checked a sigh. Was his good work of the other week to be undone so quickly?   
  
_Of course it may have been. Potter’s wariness will be heightened by the new gossip that declares he must be the Heir of Slytherin and stalking his classmates. The situation has changed yet again. I must keep its dynamics in mind._  
  
“I have no intention of humiliating you.”  
  
Potter stared at him with an extraordinarily cynical look for a twelve-year-old; Severus did not believe Theodore Nott could have managed so well. “ _Course_ you don’t,” he said, and then stood there, breathing as deeply as someone trying to control his fear of his own execution.  
  
Severus regarded him contemplatively. _It is no longer a mystery why he did not press Minerva and Albus for more punishment of the Finnigan boy. He has never learned to trust adults.  
  
That is not the normal reaction of a Muggleborn._  
  
Still, referring to that particular puzzle at the moment would only be a way to do what the boy feared, so Severus laid it aside, and said, “What I say now is true. Draco is bound by a Secrecy Spell. Should he try to confess what happens here to anyone outside this room, whether by speech or writing, he will go mad.” It could not hurt a little to exaggerate the effects of the spell. Even if Granger looked it up and conveyed the pure truth to Potter, the boy could not say he had lied.   
  
Potter’s face didn’t change. “It’s bad enough with an audience of two,” he said. “And it’s worse—“ He quickly cut off his confession of weakness, which Severus could not but approve of. “Go ahead, sir. I’m ready.”  
  
Severus discovered the bad side of his hobby then. He could only subtly manipulate Draco and Potter and watch in amusement as they danced when he truly _understood_ their psychology. And Potter’s deep separation from the world of authority was not adolescent rebelliousness, as he had always assumed. It sprang from multiple bad experiences.  
  
No matter his intentions and his skill, Severus could not overcome those scruples and assume the place of the boy’s mentor figure in a week, especially with his latest misstep.  
  
He spared a brief thought for what some of his old colleagues would say if they could see him now, and then extended a hand to Potter. The boy stared at it without expression, though his hands closed into fists, as if he imagined that Severus was going to ask for his wand.  
  
“I give you my word,” Severus said quietly, “that if anything happens to humiliate you tonight, it will not be on purpose.” That was not as absolute a promise as someone like Minerva would have made, but Severus’s first and hardest lesson had been not to make promises he couldn’t keep. “Draco is here to help brew the potion, given his skills, and because he has somewhat of an interest in this vengeance.”  
  
“What’s that, then?” Potter had picked up the trick of sounding perfectly sullen from the Weasley brat.  
  
 _Should I--? Yes. I need a few moments to think about handling Potter with more delicacy, and it is time for a test of Draco’s mettle_. Severus turned his head so that he was looking at the other boy in the room, who had, so far, remained admirably silent. “Will you explain, Draco?”  
  
*  
  
Potter’s face darkened for the merest moment. Draco doubted Professor Snape would have understood the meaning of that expression. He did.  
  
 _He hears Professor Snape calling me by my first name, really hears it, now. That suggests to him that I’m favored._  
  
Draco kept his voice as cool as possible. At the same time, he spoke without a hint of the sneer that he knew would just make Potter more upset. “I want to see what the potion does to Finnigan, and I’ll like it better if I can have a part in making it.”  
  
“Then hurt someone else.” Potter was all coiled tightness, like a dragon defending its eggs. Draco felt a shiver of admiration move through him. Potter made anger look _good_ , despite what Father was always saying about it being one of the most dangerous as well as the ugliest emotions on a human face. “You have no shortage of people you hate, I’d assume.”  
  
 _Does he think I’m going to use the potion against him_? Maybe he did think that, and Draco knew this wasn’t the right time to explain that he wanted to see Potter insulted, not physically hurt.  
  
 _Mostly, anyway_ , he amended, thinking of the Quidditch game and the serpent he had conjured in the Dueling Club.  
  
“Finnigan burned an Invisibility Cloak,” he said. “I didn’t know you had one of those, Potter. How did Finnigan?’  
  
Potter put up his chin. It made him look absurd, but also defiant. “I don’t think he did. I just think he found it and decided to burn it because he knew I must value it if I had it tucked carefully in the bottom of my trunk.”  
  
“Still.” Draco let the silence pause for a moment, insanely proud of himself. He was handling people just like Father had always said to do. He saw Professor Snape shift his weight, as if he disapproved, but Draco didn’t care, because he hadn’t said anything. “An Invisibility Cloak is valuable wizarding property. Vengeance is appropriate when something like that is destroyed.”  
  
“But it wasn’t yours.” Potter still peered at him suspiciously from behind those enormous glasses.  
  
“By a half-blood—“ Draco began incautiously.  
  
“ _I’m_ a half-blood.”  
  
 _Stupid, Draco, stupid_. As always, the chiding voice in his head carried his father’s accents. Draco nodded a little in acknowledgment of that, and then said, his words cutting his throat like shards of broken glass, “I—I apologize. I didn’t really mean that.”  
  
“Yes, you did.” Potter was withdrawing into himself again.  
  
“All right, I did!” Draco snapped, losing his temper abruptly. “I’m trying to _help_ you, you git, and I can see Professor Snape’s experimental potions before anyone else does, and I can make a Gryffindor squirm, even if it’s not _you_ , and I can have an adventure with you for once! Can’t you just accept the bloody help and not ask me so many bloody questions?”  
  
He winced in the next instant, and not only because Professor Snape was giving him a glare fit to cut diamond.  
  
But, he saw when he looked up, maybe losing his temper was the best thing he could have done. Potter was staring at him with something more like honest curiosity than Draco had ever seen on his face.  
  
*  
  
 _An adventure with you, for once._  
  
It had never occurred to Harry that Draco Malfoy might want to have an adventure with him.  
  
But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. He couldn’t have much of a good time with those lumpish friends of his, and the way he looked at Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson and Theo Nott in class made Harry think he wasn’t great friends with them, either. What _would_ Malfoy do for fun when he wasn’t at Quidditch practice and had finished his homework? Sit around and stare at the walls of the common room? Try to play wizarding chess with Goyle and Crabbe, who probably needed to be constantly reminded what directions the pieces moved in?  
  
 _He was probably envious last year when he heard about our adventure against Quirrell, especially when he doesn’t know the whole truth_. Remembering the Mirror of Erised and Voldemort’s face in the back of Professor Quirrell’s head still caused Harry to shiver, but he knew that a lot of people just had the impression that he and Ron and Hermione had been out of bed after curfew and not punished for it. _And then we earned so many House points for it. He probably wants that, too_.  
  
Harry could feel himself relaxing. If Malfoy was really bound by the Secrecy Spell, he couldn’t talk about it anyway. And if he _wasn’t_ —Harry wanted to laugh. He didn’t know what he’d been so worried about. Everyone already whispered about him because he was (unfortunately) a Parselmouth and (supposedly) the Heir of Slytherin. Would they even pay attention to a rumor of his humiliation? Or would he notice it in the general whispering?  
  
 _Yes, I can accept his bloody help. I understand his motives, now._  
  
“All right, Malfoy,” Harry said, and then ignored him entirely and turned to Snape. “What does the potion do, sir?”  
  
Snape stared at him with eyes so sharp Harry was sure he was going to receive a reprimand for fighting with Malfoy, but then he seemed to decide against it. He was probably eager to show off his nasty potion, Harry thought, as he moved towards the table and the cage with the rat in it.  
  
“On the rat,” Snape said, his voice taking on dry, lecturing tones, “the potion has an immediate and concentrated effect. Of course the doses that we gave Finnigan would be in much smaller proportions, and would take some time to show the results. In other ways, too, the potion must be modified, so that it does not simply poison Mr. Finnigan.” His voice became soft and mocking. “Such a horrible fate that would be, one which he surely does not deserve.”  
  
Malfoy crowded up beside Harry, his eyes bright with excitement. Harry shot him a glance. He wanted to see the horrid potion demonstrated, of course.  
  
Well, there was a dark pleasure coiling around Harry’s spine, too. But he wasn’t about to admit that to anyone. He looked back at the rat as Snape shot a sudden, expert hand into the cage, squeezed its jaws open, and poured the contents of the vial down its throat.  
  
The rat, released, hopped backwards, squeaking, and then proceeded to sniff its way cautiously around the cage again. Harry had to admit the potion was boring so far.  
  
Then the rat began to shiver, and its mouth abruptly dropped open.  
  
“The potion causes a progressive loss of control,” Snape murmured, his voice so deep that Harry could almost let it become background noise. “In the most embarrassing ways possible for a human, of course, if not an animal.”  
  
A thin line of saliva began to roll from the rat’s mouth.  
  
“Finnigan will drool into his breakfast.”  
  
The rat rolled to one side, convulsing. Its tail lifted, and dark gobs began to fall on the table.   
  
“And, at times,” said Snape, his voice running now under Malfoy’s high giggles, “give vent to other things.”  
  
Harsh squeaking noises came from the rat’s mouth.  
  
“At the most inconvenient moments,” Snape murmured, “he will babble his thoughts and not be able to stop himself. He must beware of the malicious thoughts that might, that _must_ , cross his mind. Certainly if he intends another plan like the one against you, Potter, he will be caught in instants.”  
  
The rat’s hind legs kicked out and then came together again, as if it were swimming through tar.  
  
“Involuntary movements and loss of motor control are the final stage,” Snape said in a detached tone that reminded Harry of the Muggle physicians he’d seen on the telly. “I do not know if we will permit the potion to go that far. It would be rather noticeable, and it might interfere with my own class in non-amusing ways.”  
  
He turned towards Harry, resting one elbow on the table. “Well, Potter? Is this vengeance too Slytherin for you?”  
  
Harry was silent for long moments, struggling with himself. As the moments passed, Snape’s face became more neutral and Malfoy’s drooped. Harry licked his lips and looked at the rat again, which had got slowly back to its feet, shivering.   
  
“I think it is,” he said in a low voice.  
  
Snape’s mouth tightened. Malfoy gaped at him.  
  
“But I want to use it anyway,” Harry finished, his hand clenching on the edge of the table, his mind filling with images of the photographs of his parents withering and crisping in the flames whilst the people in them cowered away to the edges of the pictures. He hadn’t seen that happening, but he was sure it had. He looked up at Snape. “When can we start?”  
  
*  
  
Severus kept a thoughtful eye on Potter as he made a list of different concentrations of various ingredients and Draco prepared them on the table, from which the rat’s cage had been removed. Potter, on his strict instructions, was doing nothing more involved than passing leaves and petals, powders and liquids, to Draco on his request.  
  
 _He is an interesting puzzle—more interesting than I had supposed._  
  
Already he had a source of courage that Severus did not think was typical for Gryffindors, that of being able to face up to and acknowledge the darker parts of himself, and then use them anyway. Severus would have expected that Potter would either refuse this particular potion or wear an expression of tormented guilt even as he watched Severus and Draco enter the modification process. Instead, though his eyes were over-bright, he had said nothing more about it after that pair of extremely self-revealing statements.  
  
And then there were the other statements he had made.  
  
 _It’s bad enough with an audience of two.  
  
And it’s worse when they already hate me. _  
  
Severus was sure that would have been the next sentence.  
  
He would have said, if he had heard the story at second hand, that Potter was complaining about nothing, that he could have had little experience with true humiliation in his life. But his sight of the occurrence had conveyed, as no narrator could be trusted to, the flush of the boy’s cheeks and the ancient sting in his voice. Yes, he knew what he was talking about, and the mere last month was not sufficient to have taught him.   
  
_The Muggles._  
  
Severus did have some memories of Lily’s sister Petunia. She would have had the raising of the boy. And of course she had failed at it, as she had always failed to deal well with things associated with magic.  
  
Severus was interested in the Muggles and their doings, because they made Potter more complicated than he would have reckoned. Perhaps he would study them in time, but for now he was content to pick up on the clues that he had detected in Potter’s face and voice. It made them more interesting when he did not know every single truth right away.  
  
 _And Draco…_  
  
Severus was attentive, as Potter assuredly was not—and Draco himself could not be—to the sidelong glances Draco gave the other boy as he passed him vials and packets and pouches. The glances were small, but constant, and there was a softening around his cheeks, as if they had suddenly reacquired some of their baby fat. After seventeen surreptitious minutes of study, Severus concluded the softening was occasioned by the dropping of lines of tension that Draco had constantly carried about.   
  
_This association with Potter will be good for Draco. He gets what he has wanted, whilst seeing, perhaps, that he must fight to earn and keep it._  
  
The boys had begun to talk to each other, cautious on both sides. Mostly, Potter was asking for pure information about the ingredients, and Draco was providing it. Potter showed wariness; Draco strove to keep his emotion out of his voice.  
  
 _Wary they must be of each other for now_ , Severus thought, _but it will work out. I will make it so._  
  
He pondered the strength of his desire for a moment, but realized after some careful consideration that it was akin to his interest in Potions brewing. A hobby that made his life more amusing was of considerable value. Of course he wanted to smooth out difficulties that might arise, in this case the year and a half of hostility between the two boys.  
  
 _I need them both to make each other more amusing. They are inherently reactive._  
  
And, feeling he had given all the thought he could to that matter for the moment, Severus put it out of his head and began to consider the properties of other reactive substances.  
  
*  
  
He had forgotten about it.  
  
Somehow, he had forgotten.  
  
And now Ron and Hermione were standing in front of him expectantly, and Harry found that he had a decision to make.  
  
“Harry?” Hermione prompted him when he paused. “The Polyjuice is _ready_ now. I have a plan to get the hair we need from Crabbe and Goyle, so you can pretend to be them and visit the Slytherin common room for an hour.” She smugly held up a dark hair in her hand. “And I have a hair from Millicent Bulstrode so I can go along, too. I got it off her at the Dueling Club.”  
  
“Come _on_ , mate.” Ron was dancing up and down in place, an unholy glee suffusing his face. “Wouldn’t it give Malfoy a nasty start if he knew what we were planning?”  
  
Harry swallowed and leaned his head into his hands for a moment. On the one hand, Malfoy was still their best candidate for Heir of Slytherin. His father was a school governor, and, thanks to Mr. Weasley, they knew Lucius Malfoy was involved with Dark artifacts. And Harry _knew_ , now, in case he needed a reminder, that Malfoy still thought in terms of pure-bloods versus everyone else.  
  
But at the same time, he didn’t think Malfoy was capable of being the Heir of Slytherin and still lying convincingly to _Snape_ , of all people. And Harry didn’t think Snape would countenance the entire Heir of Slytherin business. He seemed to be too joyously involved in the preparation of the potion for Seamus, which Harry had met with him and Malfoy two more times to work on.   
  
_He likes his evil subtle, not obvious_ , Harry thought suddenly, knowing it was true. _And the Heir of Slytherin business is too bloody obvious by half._  
  
So he knew they didn’t need to investigate Malfoy like they’d had to. But he didn’t know how to explain that to Ron and Hermione, since he couldn’t tell them about what had convinced him they didn’t need to investigate.  
  
“Mate?” Ron had a hand on his shoulder now. “You all right?”  
  
 _We could still do it. Hermione’s an expert brewer, and Snape hasn’t noticed those ingredients missing from his stores. Malfoy would never know._  
  
Harry thought of the way Malfoy had talked to him like an actual human being the last time they were together, the way his mouth tugged towards a smile when he thought Harry wasn’t watching.  
  
 _But I would._  
  
“I don’t want to do it,” Harry said abruptly, sitting up and back.   
  
His best friends stared at him with expressions of astonishment on their faces. Harry felt the familiar squirming of guilt in his stomach. _They’d never understand. They wouldn’t understand me wanting to use that potion, either. It’s a little sick._  
  
But he felt more than a _little_ sick when he thought of way Seamus had destroyed his things. On the other hand, he’d pretended to be over that for a week now.  
  
“Why not?” Hermione demanded.  
  
Harry took a deep breath, and released it in a lie. “You know all those detentions Snape’s been giving me lately?” They nodded, and he rushed on, before he could lose the thread of inspiration. “He was muttering something about boomslang skin being missing last time. He also said something about tracking spells.”   
  
Hermione’s face turned a sickly yellow. “He _could_ figure it out if he had tracking spells on the ingredients themselves and not just their shelves,” she said. “It’s delicate, but he could manage it. He’s a Potions master. And there’s still some left. Oh, no!” she wailed, and rushed out of the room, heading, Harry was certain, towards the bathroom on the second floor.  
  
Ron sat down in the middle of the couch and sighed heavily. “Well, that’s some of the excitement of the hols shot,” he groused. “What are we going to do now?”  
  
Harry smiled at him. “Go flying?” he suggested.  
  
Ron shot to his feet and out the door, heading for the school pitch and the brooms that were kept there. Harry looked around out of habit for his Nimbus before he remembered.  
  
 _You can still fly, though_ , he told himself, and ran after Ron, determined to be only a Gryffindor and a schoolboy for at least one afternoon.


	4. Earnestness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some lines in the fifth scene of this chapter are quoted from a scene in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, copyright J. K. Rowling. These sentences have asterisks before and after them.

Potter was carrying a Dark artifact in his satchel.  
  
Severus narrowed his eyes and cast a spell that would redouble the effect of the one already operating, which had told him of the artifact’s existence in the first place. At once, a deep purple glow surrounded Potter’s bag. Severus had an excuse to hiss aloud, however, because he had just reached Longbottom’s table.  
  
Longbottom peered up at him with tears in his eyes. Severus damned the fate that had made him teacher of a class containing such an incompetent. No one in Professor Slughorn’s classes had melted cauldrons so regularly as Longbottom, and both his parents had been perfectly good brewers. Perhaps Bellatrix had cast more curses than simply the Cruciatus that night she attacked Frank and Alice, in an effort to torment Severus years later, he considered idly. On the other hand, she had never had that kind of foresight.  
  
“Ten points from Gryffindor for making your potion such an offensive color,” he said, and swept on, to look into Potter’s cauldron. The boy looked up and met his eyes once, then glanced away.  
  
He had done an unexpectedly good job of keeping the secret of their meetings from his best friends, Severus thought, as he pretended to estimate the consistency of a potion he could see at once was marginally better than what Potter normally accomplished. Or perhaps not so unexpected.  
  
When he began to pay attention to the boy as he was rather than as the mask of James, Severus had seen several things he had missed before.  
  
Potter was secretive. He never seemed to make the kinds of public confessions that would announce his pranks to other Gryffindors and had made Severus an inveterate catcher of pranksters in the past. He never bragged about the year before when he had managed to outface—literally—the Dark Lord and that sniveling rat Quirrell. He wore looks of anger or outrage too frequently, still, and he showed enjoyment and pleasure and weariness, but Severus had noticed that he could not always trace those emotions back to a single origin.  
  
He kept no diary and no journal. He wrote no revealing letters that could be intercepted. He lied well by omission if not directly. Several times Draco had asked him insistent questions in their brewing sessions, and Potter had turned him aside with a remark that gave Draco a chance to brag about himself. Severus had to admit that was deftly done. Whether Potter would admit it or not, he was learning to manipulate people by their weaknesses.  
  
And if another voice was raised in chatter and gossip, that person was less likely to notice that _his_ voice was missing.  
  
Severus could see potential in the boy to become a House-crosser, as his circle of Slytherins in school had called those Ravenclaws who learned to manipulate or those Hufflepuffs who had courage. Of course, the very name implied too sharp a division between Houses; Severus knew well enough that multiple traits existed in all personalities save the simplest. On the other hand, twelve-year-olds like Draco and Potter were apt to take the Sorting Hat’s judgment seriously and try to live up to the mantle of bravery or cunning, intelligence or loyalty. That Potter had willingly exercised “Slytherin” qualities was interesting.  
  
He would not see that potential drowned by a Dark artifact.  
  
On the other hand, Potter showed none of the typical signs of addiction to a powerful magical device: restive movements, unexplained sweat and paleness, glazed eyes. Perhaps he did not know what he had, or perhaps he planned to use it for some specific purpose. Severus would watch over him and see what he did with it.  
  
If he displayed any of the signs, Severus would take it away.  
  
If he was ignorant of its nature, well and good.  
  
If he used it for some specific purpose…  
  
Severus gave a smile that caused several Gryffindors to whimper as he swept up to the front of the classroom. _Well_.   
  
If he used it for some specific purpose, then perhaps he would like a bit of help.  
  
*  
  
 _You are to tell no one what I have just told you._  
  
Draco bristled as he stared at the letter from his father. The rest of the words had been relatively unimportant, instructions on improving in his schoolwork and a little of the precious information about the Malfoy fortunes and influences that Lucius doled out to his son on an irregular basis.  
  
But _that._  
  
 _Why does he think I would break the secrecy he’s enjoined on me, when he’s trusted me with more sensitive information for years? He doesn’t have any reason for suspecting me, and yet he still does._  
  
Ordinarily, he would be tempted to excuse his father. But not this time.  
  
Not when he’d been spending a few hours each week with people who listened to him, people who trusted his brewing skills, and people who looked at him less skeptically each time. Potter still wasn’t talking about himself much, but Draco had expected that. It was enough for him that they weren’t hexing each other, and that he could look forwards to the moment when the potion would be used on Finnigan.  
  
No, the look in Professor Snape’s eyes was of real importance for him. He watched with the same cool criticism he used in class. But his words of instruction went deeper; he obviously saw that Draco was ready for more than the plodding idiots who held Slytherin House back in class. And now and then he would speak a few words of backhanded praise that Draco treasured as much as whole compliments.  
  
 _Your dicing is, I suppose, not utterly incompetent.  
  
Crushing the maple leaves is the only method that would work better, but textbook editors do not often see fit to put that in.  
  
A knowledgeable Potions student would do as you have done. A very knowledge one would leave a slightly greater distance between the wormwood and the arsenic._  
  
For the first time, Draco could feel his interest in Potions increasing to the level that his interest in Quidditch and Potter’s friendship had. Maybe he would become a Potions master like Professor Snape. Maybe he would use potions to supplement the inventions that he had dreamed of creating someday.  
  
He didn’t really know what inventions he wanted to make. Beautiful ones, useful ones, great ones. He just wanted to create something.  
  
 _You never will._  
  
Draco could feel his scowl become more pronounced. Luckily, he was alone in his bedroom at the moment—it was Blaise and Theo’s turn to try and instruct Vince and Gregory in the basic theory of Charms—and there was no one to wonder why.  
  
Those words weren’t part of his own thoughts. They weren’t in the letter, either. They were a memory of his father’s voice when Draco had got up his courage and confessed his desire to be an inventor to Lucius.  
  
Lucius hadn’t even turned and looked at him with contempt before explaining that his son would have better things to do. He had said that Draco never would and gone on talking to Draco’s Mum.  
  
 _I can do things he doesn’t know about. I can do lots of things he doesn’t know about. And anyway, the information he’s telling me here is something loads of people must know.  
  
Probably not Potter, though._  
  
His mind made up, Draco settled down to write a letter. He wouldn’t sign it, just in case Potter opened it when one of his nosy little friends was around. But he wrote down the information Lucius had put in _his_ letter, carefully rephrasing it so that no one could trace the words back to him.  
  
If his father found out—  
  
Draco shrugged. He didn’t think Potter was the kind to blurt news like this all over the place. If his father found out, it would have to be through someone else.  
  
And in the meantime, Potter would probably figure out who the letter came from, and it would be another secret shared between them. Draco was getting tired of only sharing the secret of the potion and the tips on potions-making that he fed Potter during their time together in Professor Snape’s office.  
  
He went up to the Owlery and chose one of the school owls to deliver his message, watching it fly away with a sense of satisfaction.  
  
 _Yeah, loads of people must know that the last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood girl died and the person who did it was expelled_ , Draco decided as he trotted back to the dungeons. _My father couldn’t even trust me with an important secret, could he?_  
  
And a small, tightening coil of resentment in his belly that was focused on Lucius Malfoy tightened a little further.  
  
*  
  
“Where _is_ it?”  
  
Harry didn’t respond to Ron’s frustrated shout, instead searching steadily through his trunk. He could feel tears burning his eyes, but he blinked constantly, and they didn’t fall.  
  
Besides, it wasn’t the loss of Tom Riddle’s diary he was crying for. It was the fact that someone had been able to get through all the wards on his trunk and the protective charms that he’d used after Seamus burned his possessions.  
  
That meant someone else could get in if they wanted to. It meant that Harry’s things could never be safe.  
  
He’d used some of the same protective charms on Hedwig. Maybe she wasn’t safe, either.  
  
The idea made Harry feel short of breath. He sat down hard on the bed. Ron continued looking under his own bed for a minute before he glanced up and saw Harry’s face.  
  
“Mate?” He came towards Harry and gingerly patted his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”  
  
Harry gave him a glance that he knew was dull. “Someone had to know the password in order to enter the room,” he said simply. “The person who took the diary was a Gryffindor.”  
  
Ron blinked and rocked back on his heels. “Bloody hell,” he said after a moment, and Harry looked automatically behind him for Hermione, who always seemed to know when Ron was cursing and would show up to scold him. She wasn’t there this time, though. “I didn’t even consider that. I thought someone from Slytherin would show up to steal it.”  
  
Harry nodded absently. After the memory that the diary had shown him, he had to think that Hagrid had been the one to release the creature from the Chamber of Secrets and kill the girl that mysterious letter had told him about, but he hadn’t liked the look of Tom Riddle, either. His voice was too soft, and he had too much confidence in going after Hagrid and reporting him. Why did he know about Hagrid and the Chamber of Secrets in the first place? And why didn’t he show more grief for the girl who had died?  
  
 _Besides, Mr. Weasley said never to trust anything when you can’t see where it keeps its brain_.  
  
“Well,” Ron said, with a huge sigh, “I reckon it doesn’t matter. The attacks have stopped, and you _know_ that if Hagrid let the creature out to attack someone, he didn’t do it on purpose. Besides, Dumbledore trusts him, and that’s good enough for me.”  
  
Harry nodded absently. He still wanted to cry and gnash his teeth, but he also didn’t want to show too much anger, in case someone—  
  
 _Like Seamus—_  
  
figured out that Harry was upset about the thief getting into his trunk. Harry would still remain indifferent for right now. The diary wasn’t a huge loss.  
  
Besides, he could ask Hermione about protective charms. She would probably be thrilled to have an excuse to do research.  
  
 _And_ , he thought suddenly, _if we clean up the room before Seamus or anyone else gets back, then they don’t need to know that someone was here and looked through my things at all_.  
  
“Come on,” he told Ron, leaping to his feet. “I’ll give you my dessert tonight if you help me put away these things before anyone else comes in.”  
  
Ron brightened and began to snatch tossed-about pillows off the floor.  
  
*  
  
Draco felt silly waiting for Potter outside the hospital wing. He paced back and forth, scuffing a toe on the floor and pretending when anyone came by to lean against the wall and scowl into the distance. They would think he was waiting for a friend.  
  
 _Well, I am._  
  
But everyone Draco would consider a friend from Slytherin House was aware that no one from Slytherin was in the infirmary ill right now. And neither was Potter.  
  
But Draco had heard about Granger being Petrified, and he was aware, at least a little, of what that was going to do to Potter.  
  
So he waited.  
  
Potter and Weasley exited together, and Draco ducked out of sight. Weasley’s face was red, and he looked like he wanted to hit something. Draco rolled his eyes. _Of course._   
  
Potter’s face concerned him more. He looked blank and pale, the way he had right after Finnigan burned his things. Draco thought he was trying to either hide his emotions, in the way he was no good at, or else getting himself ready to do something grand and stupid. Like the way he’d gone after the Dark Lord last year, Draco thought. He didn’t know _all_ the details, but there had been a trace of the Dark Lord in the school, or at least a Death Eater.  
  
And suddenly a possibility so horrible occurred to Draco that his jaw fell open and brushed his chest.  
  
 _What if he’s going after the monster in the Chamber of Secrets because it Petrified Granger?_   
  
It was the sort of stupid thing Potter would do, and Draco reacted without thought. He stepped into the open and called to Potter.  
  
He whirled around, of course. But so did Weasley, and he looked suspicious at best, his red face quickly acquiring an expression of rage.  
  
“What are _you_ doing here?” he demanded. “Come to talk bollocks about your _daddy’s_ Galleons at Hermione? It won’t do any good, you know. She can’t hear you.” Abruptly, he looked away, blinking, and Draco knew he was trying to control tears.  
  
Draco ignored him for the present—this was more important—and spoke to Potter, who was trying his best to look as if they had never spent any time together. “You can’t go after the monster from the Chamber of Secrets yourself,” he said. “You don’t have enough magic to defeat whatever it is.” He took a deep breath. “You’ll need Dark Arts to fight it. And I can help you with that.”  
  
Potter started as though Draco had pressed one of the Weasel twins’ pranks into his hand. His shock of dark hair that he kept long on purpose to cover his scar fell into his eyes as he stared more and more. Annoyed, Draco walked quickly past him, gesturing for them to follow. They needed someplace more private to talk.  
  
Weasel threatened him the whole way there. Draco continued to ignore him. So long as he could hear two sets of footsteps following and not one, then Potter had not dashed off on his own like an ignoramus again, and that was fine.  
  
When they reached an alcove on the second floor, Draco cast a warding spell, pretending not to notice Weasley’s surprised gasp. He turned around with a faint smirk, though. Maybe that would convince them that he knew powerful magic and could help.  
  
“I already helped once,” he said bluntly. _Best be blunt with Gryffindors, it’s the only thing they understand_. “I sent you that letter about the girl who died when the Chamber of Secrets was last opened.”  
  
“So it _was_ you,” Potter breathed. He had a little emotion in his face now, like starved hope.  
  
Draco heroically refrained from rolling his eyes. _Yes, one must be blunt with Gryffindors. I did think he would have figured that one out._  
  
“And how did you know about that?” Weasley demanded.  
  
“My father told me,” Draco said. It really was as pleasant as taunting to ignore Weasley’s spluttering and continue speaking to Potter, he thought. It made him and Potter seem like adults whilst Weasley was a child. “I want to help. You promised me an adventure with you, remember?”  
  
Potter’s eyes widened. He really had forgotten all about that, then. Draco found himself obscurely offended, more than he would have if Potter denied their friendship in front of Weasley.  
  
“This could be a very dangerous adventure,” Potter whispered, low enough that Weasley had to stop his whinging to hear.  
  
“I don’t care.” Draco folded his arms so they couldn’t see his hands shake. He didn’t care as much as he wanted to be with Potter, but he was still afraid. “Take me along.”  
  
Potter licked his lips. “All right,” he said. “But I need other spells from you before you teach us the Dark Arts.”  
  
“ _Harry_!” Weasley burst out, but Potter ignored him, too.  
  
“I need more powerful and protective warding spells,” Potter said. He gestured at the diagonal line of light that shielded the mouth of the alcove. “Like the one you just cast, in fact. And I need a spell that will shield us from sight whilst we try to find out what happened to Hermione. They’re supervising us too closely for us to just sneak around.” A bitter smile touched his face. “And since Seamus burned my Invisibility Cloak, we can’t use that.”  
  
“Done,” Draco said instantly. His father had trusted him with the incantation to the Disillusionment Charm, and after many unsuccessful tries that summer, Draco had finally managed to perform it. He turned away from Potter and Weasley, raising an eyebrow when they stared at him. “Well? We need some place more private than this to practice.”  
  
“The professors will stop us,” Weasley objected.  
  
Draco gave him a superior smile. “Not when I cast that spell I’m going to show Potter,” he said, and then his eyes rested, deeply challenging, on Potter. He was the one who would make the real decision here, whether Weasley knew it or not.  
  
Potter raised his head. His eyes shone like a hunting dog’s, and he nodded, once.   
  
Draco nodded back, and, finally feeling adult and part of something, dissipated the ward to lead them away.  
  
*  
  
Harry stood outside Hagrid’s hut under the Disillusion Charm, or whatever it was called, that Malfoy had taught them, Malfoy on his right and Ron on his left, and heard, primarily, the terrified beating of his heart.  
  
He and Ron had decided that they had to talk to Hagrid about the attacks since Hermione was Petrified, even though in his heart of hearts Harry still didn’t believe Hagrid had anything to do with the Chamber of Secrets. So they’d cast the Disillusion Charm on themselves and come down to the hut, Malfoy tagging along.  
  
They’d arrived—only to find Dumbledore there and an odd-looking man that Ron said was the Minister of Magic, Mr. Weasley’s boss.   
  
They were talking about taking Hagrid away to Azkaban.  
  
Harry felt faint, sick to the point where he didn’t think he could stand. He had to lean against the solid wall of the hut and breathe very fast.   
  
Someone had broken into his things again, and Hermione was Petrified, and now Harry was losing another friend to _prison_. It felt like a bad dream. It felt like something he couldn’t recover from.  
  
It felt like something he needed help to face.  
  
 _But where am I going to get that help_? he thought, wiping at eyes that wanted badly to stream—and that was another, minor grief pressing on him. He didn’t cry. He wasn’t supposed to cry. Crying only made things worse and made him a baby. _It’s not like Snape or McGonagall could give me help for this, and Dumbledore’s letting them do it!_  
  
A hand touched his elbow. Harry looked automatically at Ron, only to find him listening to the conversation with a frown on his face. Then he realized the supporting hand came from Malfoy. Malfoy tilted his head at the hut, though, and Harry reckoned he thought listening to the conversation was important, too. Harry swallowed his weakness and joined them.  
  
Someone had knocked on the door. Dumbledore had answered the knock, and—  
  
And Lucius Malfoy stepped into the hut.  
  
Next to Harry, Malfoy gasped. Harry nudged him in the ribs to shut him up.   
  
His body moved before his thoughts did. _Those_ were slow and sticky and running in treacle. He had to wonder what Lucius was doing here, and he had to wonder if Malfoy had known about this, and he had to wonder if Malfoy would care even if he did, or maybe this was a trap, and the tentative truce Harry had thought was growing between them was just a lie—  
  
*“Already here, Fudge,”* Lucius said. * “Good, good…”*  
  
*“What’re you doin’ here?”* Hagrid shouted, and Harry felt a moment’s gladness. _At least someone is standing up to them_! *“Get outta my house!”*  
  
*“My dear man, please believe me, I have no pleasure at all in being inside your—er—d’you call this a house?”* Malfoy looked around with an expression of such disdain that Harry realized in a moment where Draco had learned his sneers from. *“I simply called at the school and was told the headmaster was here.”*  
  
*“And what exactly did you want with me, Lucius?”* It was Dumbledore who spoke now, his eyes angry enough that Harry started silently cheering him on, too. He had to stop this, didn’t he?  
  
*“Dreadful thing, Dumbledore,”* and Malfoy removed a long scroll of parchment from his robes and snapped it in front of the Headmaster, *“but the governors feel it’s time for you to step aside. This is an Order of Suspension—you’ll find all twelve signatures on it. I’m afraid we feel you’re losing your touch. How many attacks have there been now? Two more this afternoon, wasn’t it? At this rate, there’ll be no more Muggle-borns left at Hogwarts, and we all know what an awful loss that would be to the school.”*  
  
 _He’s not even pretending to be sorry_ , Harry thought, looking at the smirk on his face. _I hate him. I hate him._  
  
The hatred settled in his stomach, dull and bitter, and stayed there as he listened to the Minister make an ineffectual protest and Malfoy insist that Dumbledore had to leave. And then it turned inwards, and Harry wondered about something else.  
  
 _What am I doing standing here next to the son of a man I hate?_  
  
He became aware that Draco was squeezing his hand hard enough to hurt. Harry shuffled a step away from him, but didn’t say a word. He wouldn’t take his hand away right now only because that would cause a scuffle.  
  
And there were words that were important to listen to. Hagrid said that anyone who wanted the truth only had to follow the spiders. Dumbledore said he would only really have left Hogwarts when there were none left loyal to him. Harry duly remembered the words, but his inner turmoil consumed almost all his attention.   
  
_Maybe he doesn’t agree with his father on everything, but I’ve heard him say things about half-bloods and Hermione that—  
  
And the information he gave us came from his father. _  
  
Harry had made his mind up by the time everyone left Hagrid’s hut and they could release the Disillusion Charms. Draco turned to him with his face wild and pale, and Harry felt remotely sorry for him.  
  
 _He wanted an adventure. This was his adventure._  
  
“I swear I didn’t know he was going to be there,” Malfoy said, so rapidly it took Harry a minute to understand the words. “Please, you _have_ to believe me. Father didn’t say anything about that in his letters to me. He’s been hinting at some big thing the governors are going to do for weeks, but I didn’t know about this. _Please_.”  
  
The last few words came out as a desperate cry, and Harry did find himself believing Malfoy. But that didn’t change his mind on the most important thing. They’d still have to leave Malfoy out of their search for the Chamber of Secrets. There was simply too much chance that he might betray them to his father. He probably wouldn’t mean to, but Harry thought it would happen.  
  
 _Besides, it’s not fair to ask him to make a choice between me and Lucius._  
  
“All right,” he said, over Ron’s indignant protest. “I accept that.”  
  
“You do?” Malfoy was looking at him as if he, too, believed Harry was the savior of the world. It made Harry bloody uncomfortable.  
  
 _I just won’t tell him about the Chamber of Secrets and the way we’re investigating it, that’s all. Ron and I will follow the spiders, but he doesn’t need to know._  
  
“I do,” Harry said firmly.  
  
Malfoy edged nearer to him with a weird smile on his face. Harry felt briefly sorry for him. Maybe he wasn’t that close to the other Slytherins after all. Maybe Harry was the first real friend he’d ever had.  
  
 _But Hermione was there first_ , he thought. _And Hagrid. And I still have to choose them, if I have to make the choice._  
  
“Thank you,” Malfoy whispered.  
  
Harry clapped a hand over Ron’s mouth and led him away with a nod to Malfoy. When Ron burst out into spluttering noises, Harry turned to face him and looked him dead in the eye.  
  
“I’ve been having some talks with Malfoy during Snape’s detentions,” he said, knowing he had to tell part of the truth. “He’s not as bad when he just talks about potions. And I think he does want to help.”  
  
“ _Why_?” Ron demanded. “Even worse, why you would you trust that git?”  
  
“Because he’s jealous,” Harry said, this time knowing what Ron would believe. “Of you, and me, and our friendship, and of not being Gryffindor. He wants to have adventures, too.” He took a deep breath. “But there’s no way I’m letting him help us follow the spiders, or look for help for Hermione.”  
  
Ron gradually calmed down, the red fading from his face as they jogged back to the school together. “Good,” he said at last. “Because I’d have to think you really had gone right mad if you did.”  
  
Harry gave a small smile. “No. Malfoy’s good enough in his place and in his way, but he’s not ready for this.”  
  
Ron gave him the first smile Harry had seen since Hermione was Petrified. “That’s right. Only best friends on this one, right?”  
  
Harry lightly punched his shoulder. “Right.” _And, of course, he’s where I’m going to get help with this._  
  
*  
  
All his foresight, all his training, all his carefully changed and rechanged perceptions, and he had not foreseen it.   
  
But Severus had been too focused on the potion that he, Draco, and Potter were preparing for revenge against Finnigan. He was still working on the concentration, adjusting the proportions of ingredients relative to one another. He was confident it would be done before summer. He had still wanted to make it more potent, however, and so he had lingered over the potion during the “detentions,” instead of listening to Potter and Draco’s conversations.  
  
He had not seen Ginny Weasley acting oddly, though, after Minerva’s announcement about her being taken into the Chamber, he thought he should have guessed the connection between the Chamber, the Dark artifact that had vanished from Potter’s possession a few weeks back, and the gentle purple glow that had taken up residence in the youngest Weasley’s bag at the same time. He had not known it would come to this, to the message written on the wall that he was staring at: _HER SKELETON WILL LIE IN THE CHAMBER FOREVER._  
  
And he had not guessed, either, what Potter would do when he realized his best friend’s youngest sister was missing.  
  
He walked slowly into the bathroom outside which the message was written. One of the sinks had sunk into the floor, and a pipe, or tunnel, led down where it had stood. Out of the darkness came a stench of slime and rot.   
  
_As is usual_ , Severus thought, his mind putting together pieces he should not have missed, _in the places where the Dark Lord chooses to reside._  
  
He had once, more than once, sensed that purple glow in the Dark Lord’s presence. It had been thirteen years and more back, but that did not matter. He should have remembered.  
  
The Dark Lord was a Parselmouth.  
  
And the creature from the Chamber of Secrets must be a basilisk.  
  
And—last of all the things unforeseen—Potter had gone down into the Chamber after it.  
  
Severus stood gazing steadily down into the darkness for long moments, mastering his memories, wrapping his fear in gauze to smother it, and reteaching the surface of his mind the glazed calm he used in Occlumency.  
  
Then he cast a Feather-Light Charm on himself and leaped into the pipe.  
  
His last thought before he left light and the surface behind was that Draco would doubtless regret not being here.


	5. Fear

  
“But Harry…” Ron’s voice trailed off uncertainly.  
  
Harry closed his eyes and leaned for a moment on the pile of rocks that separated him from his friend. Ron’s wand had backfired when Lockhart had tried to _Obliviate_ them, _Obliviating_ him instead. Harry couldn’t bring himself to mourn for their teacher’s lost mind, when it had never been much in the first place.  
  
But the wand had also brought down part of the roof, and now he was trapped on one side of the rock and rubble pile with Ron and Lockhart on the other side. Lockhart was giggling and examining his fingers, and Ron didn’t have a wand that would allow him to lift the rocks. Besides, Harry didn’t think he knew a spell that would do that.   
  
He wanted to remain here and wait for someone else to help. God, how he wanted that. But when he opened his eyes and looked at the tunnel ahead of him, he remembered that Ginny was somewhere at the end of it.  
  
Maybe alive. Maybe not. But he would never forgive himself if he didn’t at least _check_.  
  
“I’ll have to go on alone, Ron,” he said, as calmly as he could. “You go back and tell the others what happened.”  
  
“Harry, no!”  
  
Harry shook his head. His eyes burned with the remnant of ancient tears. He felt tired, and old, and very adult. “There’s no other choice, Ron,” he said. “I have to rescue Ginny.”  
  
And there was silence from behind him then, because of course Ron wanted his sister back alive. Then he swallowed nervously and whispered, “Be careful.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
Harry traveled on, his lit wand held high before him. When he rounded a corner and saw stone doors carved with snakes in front of him, he froze and clenched his fists.  
  
But he had Parseltongue for a reason, he thought. This must be the reason. He stepped forwards and hissed commandingly at the snakes, and the doors to the Chamber of Secrets jerked open.  
  
*  
  
Severus had not known what he expected to find at the bottom of the tunnel, but Weasley sitting hopelessly by a pile of rocks and Lockhart trying to count his toes were not it.  
  
Weasley leaped to his feet when he saw him, and his face was pale. Severus expected some childish anger, but instead the boy pelted towards him and grabbed his robe. Severus stared at him, wondering absently if Weasley had some devilish poison contained within his fist. It was certainly the first time one of Arthur and Molly’s children had ever _willingly_ touched him. Having their ears gripped in his fingers as he dragged them to detention did not count, as Severus considered that willfulness on his part, not on theirs.  
  
“Professor, P’fessor—“ Weasley was gasping, which made his face turn red and his neck swell out like a bull’s. Severus forbore to interrupt, though he was sorely tempted to make a comment on the boy’s respect only appearing when he was out of breath. He looked around, and noticed for the first time that Potter was not with them.  
  
 _Could he have seen sense and remained above? Perhaps this is merely Weasley’s Gryffindor heroics, and he forced Lockhart to help._  
  
But Severus rejected the hypothesis as he remembered the sunken sink. At the least, Weasley and Lockhart must have used Potter’s Parseltongue to get down here.  
  
“My wand brought the roof down!” Weasley burst out. “And Lockhart tried to _Obliviate_ us! And Harry’s gone ahead to the Chamber of Secrets to face the monster alone! It’s a basilisk!” By now, he was tugging at Severus’s robes hard enough that one of his feet shifted an inch. “You’ve got to help him, Professor Snape!”  
  
This was exactly the sort of situation that Severus would have enjoyed turning into delicate torment ordinarily. _A Weasley asked me for help_ , he could see himself announcing to his Potions class. _Not about Potions, but one can live in hope that he will eventually advance to that level._  
  
With Potter in danger, however, and thus one half of his new hobby also in danger, Severus reluctantly had to put aside his fun. He nodded shortly to Weasley and also left aside the questioning for details he would have liked to do. The general details were clear.  
  
“Stand aside,” he said, and Weasley fell back with gratifying alacrity. Severus strode forwards and studied the pile of rocks intently for a moment, ignoring Weasley’s anxious shifting. No doubt he wanted to pass and rescue his friend, but Severus had to make sure he wouldn’t bring down the roof on their heads by trying to clear the rubble. That was a Gryffindor trick if there ever was one.  
  
The rocks were balanced on several large chunks of the roof, he saw at once. Most of the pebbles could be shifted without harm, but if the boulders quivered, cracks seaming the roof would expand and they could easily be buried. Severus hissed beneath his breath and began to chant.  
  
It would take several spells to solve this problem: ones that stabilized the rocks, ones that strengthened the ceiling, and ones that redistributed the stones in several directions. If he bounced them carelessly, he might bury them even if the ceiling did not fall.  
  
 _This keeps me from Potter._   
  
But Severus’s long practice in not caring about Potter at all helped him now. It would do no good to fret and foam at the mouth and stamp like Weasley was doing. He concentrated his attention on the task in front of him.  
  
The sooner it was done, the sooner he could find Potter.  
  
And the sooner he could craft the most clever insults to tell the boy what a madman and an idiot he had been, going ahead alone.  
  
*  
  
Harry had never felt as much pain as he did when the basilisk fang went into his arm.  
  
The pain raced through him like poison and destroyed all his gladness in the fact that he’d managed to kill the basilisk. Riddle was laughing. Ginny was still dying. And he was going to die.  
  
 _Like poison_ , Harry thought dreamily. _I am poisoned. Well, I reckon the Dursleys will be glad to get rid of me.  
  
And I hope that Ron and Hermione are all right, and that Draco and Professor Snape remember to use that potion on Seamus, in memory of me. _  
  
Then his arm had a warm weight on it. Harry opened his eyes. Fawkes was sitting near the wound, his head cocked, his eyes intense. Those eyes were welling with tears, and the tears slowly slid down either side of his beak. Harry watched, absently fascinated. He supposed dying people could be fascinated by the strangest things.  
  
He did think it was slightly strange that Fawkes was crying, whilst he wasn’t. But then, not crying under the pressure of pain was something he’d learned a long time ago.  
  
The tears landed on Harry’s wound, and a tide of light raced up his arm, following the tide of pain. Harry gasped in wonder. The puncture slowly began to close, as if someone were filling the hole in with the blood and flesh he’d lost. Riddle began to shout something, but Harry wasn’t really paying attention.  
  
He was almost cured, and so his attention had shifted to the basilisk fang lying on the floor. He grabbed it.  
  
 _It’s a deadly weapon_ , his mind, still unhinged by the poison, gabbled. _If it could kill me, then it might be able to kill Riddle. But he’s a ghost, so I can’t stab him.  
  
I can’t stab_ him.  
  
He turned and drove the fang into the diary. There was a splurting sound, and the diary began to shed ink like blood.  
  
Riddle screamed.  
  
*  
  
The scream sent Severus sprinting up the tunnel and past the carved figures of the snakes that he ordinarily would have paused to stare at, past the statue of Salazar Slytherin that dominated the back of the Chamber, past the flagstones and niches that he would have loved to pause and examine for hidden treasures if he were in the right mood, if he had time.  
  
But that scream.  
  
It was a cry of ultimate pain and suffering, and in Severus’s mind it was Potter who lay suffering, though the Weasley girl was perhaps a more viable candidate.  
  
But instead he saw a figure of mist and darkness twisting in the air, the scream coming from its throat, its fingers extending like claws towards Potter. Potter sat beside a book on the floor—a book with a fang or a long curved knife buried in it, of all things—with a phoenix on his shoulder, watching the dissipating figure with a faint surprised look.  
  
 _Of course it would not be Potter who cried out_ , Severus realized slowly. _He didn’t scream when the Bludger broke his arm. I don’t think it’s his way to make noise when he’s in pain_.  
  
He turned to look at the twisting phantom as it spun towards them one final time. And in the outlines of the cruel, handsome sixteen-year-old’s face, he saw the familiar mask that made the Dark Mark twinge.  
  
 _I was right_ , he thought, without joy, as the face broke apart completely. The Weasley girl gasped and began to breathe more strongly, her death-pale face taking on a pink tinge.  
  
“Professor Snape?”  
  
Potter had finally noticed him, and his face was utterly astonished. He braced one hand on the Chamber wall and started to struggle to his feet. Severus frowned, knowing Potter would not understand the real source of the expression. He had thought he and Potter were comfortable enough around each other now that the boy would feel no _compulsion_ to face him on his feet.  
  
“Where’s Ron?” Potter demanded.  
  
“Mr. Weasley is well, but remained behind on the pain of having his liver liquefied,” Severus said, without exaggeration. “Tell me what happened here,” he added, using his wand to conjure a floating cushion for the Weasley girl. Potter, he saw, had raised himself without help. Good. Severus was not sure what would happen were he to offer it now.   
  
The Headmaster’s phoenix cocked his head and looked between both of them with bright, knowing eyes. Severus did his best to ignore the bird. Fawkes had always made him uncomfortable.  
  
“I came down after Ginny,” said Potter. “And Tom Riddle—that was his name—said that he was really Voldemort and he was getting life because Ginny had written to him in the diary.” He nodded to the destroyed book. Severus cast a subtle spell, and the remains of the dark purple glow he had seen in Potter’s satchel some months ago blazed out around the fang. “Then he sent the basilisk after me. But Fawkes had brought the Sorting Hat, which gave me the sword. So I managed to kill the basilisk.” Severus looked in the direction of the giant snake, which he had been avoiding looking at by instinct, and saw the blade sticking out from the vast open mouth. “But the basilisk bit through my arm, and I’m only alive because Fawkes cried for me. So then I thought maybe I could kill Riddle by sticking the fang through the diary. And I did.”  
  
“That account,” Severus said lowly, “contains a number of remarkable compressions which you will elucidate for me at a later time. But one question remains to be answered _now_. Why did you come down into the Chamber _alone_ , instead of fetching me or your Head of House?”  
  
“I didn’t come down alone,” Potter had the temerity to protest. “Ron and Lockhart were with me.”  
  
“Why did you bring them, and not a _competent_ adult?” Severus was trying to hold his fury at bay, but it was getting difficult, especially when he noticed the scar from the basilisk’s fang on the boy’s arm.  
  
“Because Lockhart is—was—the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and we thought he could do something.” Potter absently pushed his hair back from his forehead with his free hand; Fawkes was still sitting on the other arm. “We didn’t know he was just a fraud. He’d Memory Charmed all those people who did the _real_ heroic deeds, did you know that, Professor?” Potter stared at him with sudden outrage. “So then he tried to Memory Charm us, too, but he used Ron’s wand, which has been funny all year, and—“  
  
“And brought the roof down and made himself into a drooling idiot, yes, I know,” Severus said impatiently. “That still doesn’t explain your initial decision, Potter. I am _waiting_ for an explanation.”  
  
Potter tilted his head to the side and gave him a gaze that was reminiscent of the phoenix’s. “We tried to talk to Professor McGonagall about the Stone last year, and she didn’t listen,” he said simply. “She told us to go away and play, basically. And Dumbledore isn’t here, and you—“ He let out a harsh breath. “I know you’re helping me with the potion, but how was I to know that you’d help me with Ginny?” His eyes were bright with distrust.  
  
Severus hissed, and let the hiss rattle through his teeth. “I would not refuse to help her merely because she was a Gryffindor, Potter,” he said. “I did not _know_ how to help her because I did not _know_ where the Chamber was.”  
  
“Well, I just figured that out, myself,” Potter said, in the tone of an adolescent who knows the adults will blame him anyway.  
  
“You could have come and told me,” Severus repeated, taking a step forwards and directing his lighted wand at Potter’s face. “You could have left this entire business up to me—“  
  
“You couldn’t have opened the Chamber,” Potter snapped at him. “You’re not a Parselmouth. And Dumbledore said that he’d never really leave the school as long as someone here was loyal to him, but I don’t know how loyal you are, and so you couldn’t have got the Sword, and so you wouldn’t have rescued Ginny, and so—“  
  
“It would have worked out differently,” Severus barked. “I would have managed to save Miss Weasley.” He left out the fact that he really had no notion how to slay a basilisk; he had managed harder things in his time. “ _You_ would not have been wounded and forced into these foolish ‘heroics.’ Tell me, Potter, do you enjoy them? Is that why you persist in _risking your life_?” He was proud of the last words, which he made come out like steam from a teakettle.  
  
“I couldn’t _trust_ you!” Potter yelled, not sounding at all intimidated. At least Severus, from the bitter brilliance in Potter’s eyes, thought he was seeing some of the anger the boy had held back all year and not a complete failure of his own techniques. “I didn’t know you’d manage. I didn’t know if you would manage to get into the Chamber if I’d let you go down alone. And I didn’t have _time_ to come and find you even if I wanted to! Ginny was probably dying, probably dead! No, I don’t enjoy things like this, but I have to do them because there’s no one else _to_ do them!”  
  
 _And that_ , Severus thought, some of his anger ebbing, _is the heart of the dilemma._  
  
“Mr. Potter,” he said, lowering his voice to the same firm but soft tone that had worked wonders in the past and sinking to one knee in front of the panting, wounded boy, “I understand you have spent most of your life alone.”  
  
The boy jumped like a scalded cat, and stared at him.  
  
“But you are no longer alone,” Severus continued. “I would rather that you come to me than risk your life. And Draco is bound by the Secrecy Spell. You can trust him to that extent.”  
  
“I didn’t want to endanger his life,” Potter said stubbornly, the light glinting off his glasses, “or force him to choose between his father and me.”  
  
Severus paused, but he had no idea what Potter’s last statement meant. Nor would he allow it to throw him off, however. “You endangered your own life without pause,” he said.  
  
“Mine doesn’t matter to as many people. I don’t have parents.”  
  
Severus’s breath caught. Potter just kept on looking at him, though, with no sign of how much he had betrayed.  
  
And Severus would not show, either, what valuable coin he now had to spend, the probable key to the heart of Harry Potter.  
  
“Come,” he said, standing. “We will not finish this conversation in a cold and dank place when both you and Miss Weasley need medical help.”  
  
“I’m _fine_ —“   
  
Severus bent down so that his face was in Potter’s this time. “Do not tell me that after you have received a jolt of basilisk venom to your system, Potter.”  
  
The boy scowled and looked mutinous, but came along when Severus began to float Miss Weasley’s stretcher towards the pile of rubble. Severus looked back at him now and then, already forming a plan in his head.  
  
 _My amusement will be destroyed if Potter manages to kill or cripple himself. That cannot happen. And my life may be endangered as well by his death, if the Dark Lord finds another way to return. And Draco’s advancement out of his father’s shadow may be stopped or delayed.  
  
I may not, perhaps, be able to convince Potter that his life matters to others if not to him. As he said, he does not trust me enough.   
  
But I know someone who_ can _convince him._  
  
*  
  
Harry sat on a bed in the infirmary, swinging his heels and listening restlessly to the adults—Madam Pomfrey and the Weasleys—talking in a corner.   
  
He didn’t need to be here. Things had worked out. Fawkes had flown him, Snape, Ron, Lockhart, and Ginny up the pipe. Dumbledore had come back, and he’d said he would explain some essential things to Harry later, after he saw how insistent Professor Snape was on dragging Harry away. Ginny’s parents had seen her alive and hugged Harry, and Mrs. Weasley had kissed him on the cheek, which deeply embarrassed him.  
  
Ginny had to be in the infirmary, Harry agreed, because she’d been almost drained of life by Tom Riddle. But _he_ didn’t need to be. Madam Pomfrey had seated him on a bed anyway, though, and told him to stay there.  
  
Harry shot a look around the room as he poked at the scar the basilisk fang had left on his arm. He saw Hermione lying Petrified on the bed across from him and winced. They were starting to release the people the basilisk had frozen, but it would be a few hours before they got to Hermione, evidently.  
  
He peered at the adults again and suddenly realized consciously that Professor Snape wasn’t with them any more. He brightened. That meant he ought to be able to leave, since both the Weasleys and Madam Pomfrey were too busy with Ginny right now to remember how much Snape had wanted him to stay here.  
  
He hopped down from the bed and turned towards the door. Maybe he could go have that talk with Dumbledore now.  
  
And that was when Snape strode in with Malfoy right behind him, and Harry’s cheerfulness faltered at the look of outrage on the other boy’s face.  
  
*  
  
Draco felt as though the inside of his mouth was coated with something sticky and vile-tasting, and he had to resist the urge to spit as he traveled through the corridors behind Snape. Most of the students they passed took one look at them and got out of the way immediately. That went some way towards soothing Draco, but not much.  
  
He had _trusted_ Potter. When Potter slipped away with Weasley near the giant’s hut, Draco had just assumed he was going away to calm Weasley down. And when Potter told him that there was no progress in the quest to find the Chamber of Secrets and the monster who was Petrifying everybody in the past few weeks, Draco had accepted that, too. In fact, he’d thought that Potter was waiting for Dumbledore to come back.   
  
But _no_. Instead, it turned out that he was the kind of person who forgot his promises and went on adventures without people when he’d said they could come along.  
  
Draco’s neck hurt by the time he swept into the hospital wing from the amount of stiffening it had done. He didn’t care. He was going to do his best to hurt Potter the way he’d been, and he hoped he would see the shock splayed across the other boy’s face.   
  
His eyes found Potter at once; he always did seem to know where he was, even in the Great Hall or another crowded room. He had one foot poised above the floor as if he intended to sneak out the door. His face was bright red with embarrassment and guilt.  
  
 _Good_.  
  
Draco marched forwards until he was right in front of Potter. He kept his voice low, because he was vaguely aware that there were other people in the room, and he didn’t see why they should hear everything that he had to say. “Yes, you were going to let me have an adventure with you,” he said. “Yes, you trusted me. Yes, you didn’t think I gave you that information about the girl who died to try and trick you. Yes, of _course_ you think we’re friends. Really.”  
  
He was too angry to master the kind of devastating sarcasm that his father would have employed, but he had the satisfaction of seeing Potter stare at him with a dropped jaw, his face getting red enough to rival Weasley’s. Draco folded his arms and stared at him levelly.  
  
“What do you have to say for yourself?” His voice was shaking, and when Professor Snape put a hand on his shoulder, Draco became aware that it had risen. He lowered it and managed to add a snapping hiss like breaking ice to it, too, which he thought would make more of an impression on Potter than yelling. Potter only seemed to get angry when Professor Snape yelled at him. “You’re a true Gryffindor, I suppose. You can play fair and you’re all noble and shite—“  
  
“ _Language_ , Draco,” said Professor Snape from behind him.  
  
Draco caught his breath and went on without apologizing. He was just too angry to do that right now. “Until it comes to the point where you can trick a Slytherin. Then you don’t care, do you? You’ll do everything you can to get away with tricking one of us.”  
  
“That had nothing to do with it at all,” said Potter. He whispered, too, but his eyes darted away from Draco’s, and his chin shook, and in other ways he didn’t look as strong. Draco was glad. He wanted to win an argument with Potter for once. “I just—I didn’t want to put you in danger. And Ron volunteered to go—“  
  
Draco stamped his foot. “I volunteered too, Potter!”  
  
Potter licked his lips, and stared off to the side as if he were wondering about darting around Draco to the door. But Professor Snape had taken his place at Draco’s side, one leg stuck out and arms folded across his chest. His forbidding expression said that Potter was welcome to _try_ to get around him, if he wanted detention for every remaining evening of the term.  
  
Potter sighed noisily and brought his gaze helplessly back to Draco’s face. “But I was with him before,” he said. “Last year. I—I _do_ trust him more. And anyway, you had an adventure when you followed us to Hagrid’s hut. I thought that was enough for you. An exciting thing happened. We overheard information they probably didn’t want us to overhear.” He didn’t have to say that _they_ referred to the Minister and Father. Draco could hear it in his voice.  
  
“I want exciting things to happen to me,” said Draco, “when I’m with _you_.”  
  
Potter’s mouth fell slowly open again. “I—I didn’t hear that part,” he said weakly. “I heard ‘adventure.’”  
  
“I know you did.” Draco leaned forwards until his nose was a few inches away from Potter’s. “Next time, listen better.”  
  
“But there’s something else, too.” Potter stiffened his shoulders. “Your father was involved. I didn’t want you to choose between me and him.”  
  
Draco shuffled his feet. This was a little harder, but he didn’t have to think that long about his answer, because of his resentment towards Lucius and what he’d already done. “My father’s keeping secrets from me. There’s no way he’ll trust me with them, not yet. But you, I had a chance to learn secrets with, and I wanted to help you.” He let a flash of bitterness show. “Besides, even if he was involved with taking Dumbledore away from the school, how could he be involved with what happened in the Chamber of Secrets? Not that I’ll ever know what really happened there, since you didn’t let me come along.”  
  
Potter’s reaction was not what he expected. He was the one to nearly touch Draco’s nose with his this time. “Because your father gave Ginny a diary that had Dark magic in it,” he whispered. “And that diary was what almost killed her and made me have to kill a basilisk.”  
  
Draco barely heard Professor Snape cast a charm around them that dimmed the sound of the other people in the room. His mouth had gone dry. “You’re lying,” he whispered. “You must be lying.”  
  
*  
  
 _That is quite enough dangerous information being spread freely about_ , Severus decided, and cast a privacy ward. When he looked back towards the boys, he half-expected to see Potter looking defiant and realize he was lying.  
  
But Potter just shook his head, his eyes on Draco’s and his face full of pity. “I’m not,” he said. “That’s why it’s dangerous for us to be friends, d’you see? I’d—I’d kind of like to be your friend. Those things you told me about Potions helped.”  
  
 _I knew he was not improving in my class through his own efforts alone_ , Severus thought, relieved to find that part of the world remained as he had always known it. _Or through my own unconscious favoring of him_. He shuddered. That would have been worst.  
  
“I don’t care how dangerous it is,” said Draco, and though he was breathing very fast, his voice had the ring of unconscious truth.  
  
“I do,” Harry said.  
  
“But you do dangerous things,” Draco countered insistently.  
  
“Someone has to do them.” Potter looked as stubborn and unyielding as he had back in the Chamber, but Draco snapped at him and destroyed that implacable look in a moment.  
  
“I want to do them with you.”  
  
“Why?” Potter was almost crossing his eyes with the intensity of his stare at Draco.  
  
“Because I do,” Draco said. “Because I want to be your friend.” His breathing had sped up again. Severus wondered idly if Potter knew that was a sign that this was very hard for him to admit. “Because someone has to make you consider things that you don’t consider and Weasley doesn’t know about, and feed you information that you won’t know about otherwise, either.” He swallowed, his hand trembling as he raised it to rake through his hair, his eyes lit with a brilliance that reminded Severus of the way a moth’s wings would flare as it died in a candle. “Because I’m doing this for myself,” he finished, “and I want to learn not to be afraid of my father, and braver when I stand up for myself. Someday I’ll _have_ to stand up for myself, because he’ll want me to do things I don’t want to. This is practice for that day.”  
  
Potter’s eyes became dim in the way that Severus had learned to associate, somewhat to his surprise, with intense thought. Then he said, “Well. We can try it. I think I’ll probably get involved in an adventure next year.” He looked at Draco sharply. “But if you try to hurt or humiliate Ron or Hermione, then I won’t listen to you anymore.”  
  
Draco nodded his head three times—more than the situation warranted, but Severus understood his shock. He was shaking still, and he didn’t believe he had got the chance he wanted.  
  
Neither did Severus, to be quite honest. But he was resigned to not understanding Potter’s sudden changes of mind, and he was satisfied that Potter would at least take a little more care with his schemes in the future, if he had to watch out for someone he didn’t quite trust to take care of himself.  
  
And it would give Severus an excuse to watch Potter more closely, since Potter would now include one of his best students in his escapades.  
  
“If that is settled,” Severus announced, making both boys jump, “the Headmaster wished to see you in his office, Potter. I am to escort you there.” He looked back at Draco. “You are to return to the dungeons, Mr. Malfoy. This is one adventure you will _not_ share with Mr. Potter.”  
  
Draco looked more than happy to nod and depart. Severus suspected he needed time by himself to think about what had just happened.  
  
So did Potter, for that matter, but he wasn’t about to get it. Still, when they were halfway to the Headmaster’s office, Potter stopped walking, turned around, and faced him. Severus looked into his eyes with some distaste and wondered what incomprehensible request he was to hear this time.  
  
*  
  
Harry had been thinking.  
  
He’d been thinking in a way that was different, and in a way that kind of hurt, but he had to think that way, because of what Malfoy had said. And then he’d seen Ron, standing with his family, looking at him every few minutes in concern, and he’d thought of the way that Mrs. Weasley kissed his cheek and the softness in Mr. Weasley’s voice when he thanked Harry.  
  
 _Maybe I do have people I matter to. Maybe they would be sorry to see me dead, and I can’t just leave them behind to protect them all the time._  
  
He really had thought doing one exciting thing would be enough for Malfoy. But no, when he said, “I want an adventure with you,” it was the _with you_ part that was really important. Harry didn’t think he knew why, but maybe he didn’t have to understand just yet. He hadn’t understood Hermione at first, either. Maybe he had to give Malfoy time and let him make sense in his own way.  
  
Maybe.  
  
It was all very hard, and Harry almost thought he’d change his mind tomorrow. After all, this friendship he was trying with Malfoy might not work out. But he’d try it, for the moment. If nothing else, Malfoy would probably change his mind over the summer, when they wouldn’t see each other for months and when Harry would need to bury every memory of Hogwarts to survive at the Dursleys’.  
  
Still, he remembered the basilisk, and Fawkes, and the sword, and the way Snape had looked when he stormed into the Chamber, and he had decided something. It was all so _big_. Bigger than what happened to him. Bigger than what he wanted.   
  
“Sir,” he told Snape, who was looking at him as if Harry were a crushed beetle that wouldn’t stop moving, “I don’t want to use the potion on Seamus.”  
  
Snape came to life in that way Harry had learned to watch for, even though he didn’t move a muscle. He looked as though lightning had struck him. He stared at Harry and waited for an answer.  
  
“Because,” Harry said, shifting from foot to foot and feeling uncomfortable, “it’s—it’s going too far. It’s still wrong. And what he did to me was still horrible, I’m not saying that,” he added quickly, because he thought Snape looked like he was about to object. “But I’ll make up for it some other way. I want to know where he got that spell he used to burn the Invisibility Cloak. I was thinking. He wouldn’t have had time to owl his mum and get the spell after he heard I was a Parselmouth. He burned my things that same afternoon. So he must have already known the spell, but why? Why did he have it on hand?”  
  
By that time, Snape’s eyes were narrowed in thought, and Harry narrowly avoided giving a sigh of relief. He knew that, if he could interest Snape in something else than Harry’s own reasoning, Snape was more likely to give up the potion.  
  
“Yes,” Snape said softly. “That _is_ interesting.”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry said. “I want to find out why he knew Dark Arts. That’s better than humiliating him. And I think he’d still always blame me, even if the potion was undetectable.”  
  
Snape bent down towards him in that unnerving way he had. Harry wished he would stop. He preferred adults standing tall and talking over his head whilst he got on with the real business that needed taking care of underneath them. “Very good, Mr. Potter,” he said in that soft voice that also made Harry uneasy. “Now tell me the _real_ reason that you are so interested in giving Mr. Finnigan a second chance.”  
  
Harry swallowed. “It’s so _big_ ,” he said, already knowing he wouldn’t explain his thoughts very well. “Bigger than me. Bigger than Gryffindor and Slytherin. Bigger than the basilisk, even.” He hoped that would get a laugh out of Snape, but Snape remained staring at him, grim and silent. Harry swallowed again and had to lick his lips before he could go on. “I don’t know everything. I have to give people second chances because maybe I’ll learn something if I do. And if I gave Malfoy a second chance, then I think Seamus deserves to have one, too. I’m not going to forgive him, but I’m going to watch him. I know Ginny had her mind corrupted by the diary, and she opened the Chamber even though she didn’t mean to. Maybe something like that happened to Seamus. Dark Arts can affect people like that, can’t they?” He looked at Snape uncertainly.  
  
“They can indeed, Mr. Potter.” Snape slowly stood back upright. “Very well. I will hold off on use of the potion for now, though I believe you will change your mind, and so I will not destroy the work we have done. Now, come. The Headmaster is waiting.” He swept away up the corridor.  
  
Harry followed, rubbing at the scar the basilisk fang had left on his arm. That seemed to him to have something to do with what he’d told Snape, but once again he didn’t have the words to figure it out.  
  
*  
  
The boy almost died, Severus thought, his eyes fastened on Potter as the brat sat in the chair before the Headmaster’s desk and listened to an account of why Dumbledore had managed to come back to the school—Lucius had blackmailed the governors with threats against their families to vote Dumbledore out, as Severus had guessed—and why the phoenix had come to help Potter in the Chamber.  
  
He knew he was brooding. He didn’t care. This deserved to be brooded upon.  
  
 _He could have changed his mind because he almost died. That has been known to affect people.  
  
He could be more affected by the fact that Draco wants friendship with him than he is letting on.  
  
He could be too cowardly to go through with the use of the potion now that Dumbledore has returned.  
  
He could truly have expanded his moral perceptions the way he claimed._  
  
Severus considered that last the least likely. Still, he had to think about it. That was one problem with having been a spy: he could see into the heart of things in so many different directions that it was surprisingly hard to come to a certainty.  
  
“—and shows you are a true Gryffindor,” Dumbledore concluded.  
  
Severus frowned and blinked. Perhaps he should have been paying more attention to the conversation. He could not think of anything that had happened in the Chamber which would show that Potter was a true Gryffindor.  
  
 _And that seems like the last thing the boy should be worried about_ , he thought in disgust, _considering the mad way he fought and went off without any support from anyone._  
  
“Good,” Potter said, and lowered his head. His hands were clasped in his lap, twisting together. “I worried—I mean, I know I convinced the Hat otherwise, but—“  
  
“Because the Hat wished to put you in Slytherin does not mean you are not loyal to me,” Dumbledore said gently, “or cowardly, either.”  
  
Severus felt as though someone had replaced his spine with a steel rod for the second time that night; the first time had been when Potter told him that he wished to give up his vengeance against Finnigan. He stared. _Potter had been a candidate for Slytherin?_  
  
It gave him several new perspectives on the situation all at once. It led him to wonder why he had misjudged Potter so severely as the archetypal Gryffindor. It surprised him that the boy had been willing to learn from Slytherins at all, if he had an extra reason to keep from “falling” into that House. It made his friendship with Draco at once more shocking and potentially more understandable. And it increased Severus’s interest in the boy.  
  
 _There may be some cunning in him after all, some traits that I would find valuable, if I could only encourage him to use it._  
  
“Yes, sir,” Potter said, and stood. “Can I go now?”  
  
“Of course,” Dumbledore said. “But please do go with Professor Snape as your escort. I had a rather nasty encounter with Lucius Malfoy earlier. I have reason to suspect that you would not wish to meet him just now.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Potter said, and followed Severus from the office.  
  
As they rode down the moving staircase, Severus resolved to deal with his confusion at a later date. He would have the summer to be at a distance from Potter and consider his perceptions of the boy more objectively. Then he could match those perceptions against the reality of seeing Potter again in the autumn term.  
  
For the moment, there was something more concrete to be dealt with.   
  
“You will return to the infirmary,” he announced when Potter attempted to take a staircase that led towards Gryffindor Tower, “so that Madam Pomfrey may check you for the aftereffects of basilisk venom.”  
  
He could have laughed at the look of disgust the boy gave him, after everything he had been through. But he did not.  
  
Harry Potter was proving a source of more than common intellectual interest. Severus wished to keep him as close as possible, as intrigued by his Potions professor and by Draco as it was possible to push him to be. Otherwise, he could easily retreat and try to resume the relationship they had had before at the start of next school year.  
  
 _Almost a Slytherin but mad as a Gryffindor; unwilling to trust adults but granting some measure of trust to a fellow student he has reason to hate; sounding moral and damaged at the same time._  
  
Yes, Potter had given him much to think about, and there were few things Severus enjoyed doing more.


	6. Anger

  
Draco trotted down the corridor towards the library, frowning at his Charms textbook. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to figure out the connection between Soothing and Tickling Charms for the summer essay that Professor Flitwick had assigned him to write. Draco suspected he needed a book that he’d ignored the first time around because the title wasn’t promising.  
  
He had just started to open the door when he heard a voice that made him freeze.  
  
“I am _displeased_.”  
  
It was his father. Draco had never heard him sound so angry. Even when Lucius was disgusted with something Draco had done, he almost never raised his voice; instead, it got colder and colder, and his face became more and more blank.   
  
_Who displeased him? Me, or Mother, or someone he works with_? Either way, Draco thought it was better to scout out the territory before going into the library. He put his eye to the keyhole.  
  
His father stood staring down at one of the house-elves, who was already wringing his hands and whimpering. Draco thought this one’s name was Dobby. Of course, all the elves were interchangeable anyway, so he’d never paid much attention to them.  
  
“How could you betray our family like this?” continued Lucius, and his voice had cooled a little but still sounded far too loud and passionate. Draco frowned. _He’s better at hiding his emotions than that_. “How could you help _Harry Potter_ , of all people?”  
  
Draco caught his breath. _Someone’s house-elf can help someone else? How did that even happen?_  
  
But he had to focus on the conversation again as Dobby wailed, “Dobby is-is sorry, M-Master Malfoy! D-dobby is a _bad_ elf! But Harry Potter is a _good_ wizard—“  
  
Lucius took a step away from Dobby, as if the elf’s words might contaminate him, and murmured a spell too soft for Draco to hear.  
  
Long parallel wounds began to appear on Dobby’s body, as though some invisible cat were standing next to him and raking its claws down his face and chest. Dobby screamed horribly, but didn’t run away.  
  
“Do clean up,” Lucius said, spinning away. Draco saw a satisfied expression on his face first. “I don’t want you spilling blood all over the floor.” And he sat down at his desk and started reading, whilst Dobby, screaming all the time, started to clean up the blood. It was no good, Draco saw, because he was spilling more even as he cleaned, and that made him bite his own hands and tug on his ears to punish himself for disobeying his master’s orders.  
  
Draco backed away from the door and walked back to his room much faster than he’d come to the library. He had to _think_ , and his head was spinning and buzzing so hard that he thought maybe his father would hear it if he stayed.  
  
He’d never seen his father use such a violent spell before, but obviously he knew it. That argued he had used it in the past.  
  
And he had used it on someone who had helped Potter.  
  
Draco shivered and rubbed his arms.   
  
And then a new thought jumped up in his mind and spoke as impudently as Dobby had when he talked back to his master.  
  
 _He doesn’t really control his emotions or maintain a cool front. He just waits until he can dump them on someone who can’t fight back. I wonder how many times he’s gone and punished a house-elf when he was angry at me?  
  
He gets angry like anyone else, and he disapproves of_ me _when_ I _get angry, but he doesn’t maintain the ideal himself.  
  
He lied. _  
  
Draco went back to his bedroom and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, for long hours, until his mother came and asked if he were sick.  
  
*  
  
Harry stumbled off the Hogwarts Express. He knew his face was green and that many people were looking at him sidelong, knowing he had screamed when the Dementors approached the train. He was just glad he had recovered from his faint before someone—like Professor Lupin, who seemed nice but was still an adult Harry didn’t know—could carry him to the infirmary.  
  
 _Why do all the adults I know either think I’m never sick or injured, or always want me to spend time in the infirmary_? he thought, rubbing at his face and trying to get the image of his dying mother and the sound of her screams out of his mind.   
  
“Mate? You all right?”  
  
Ron hovered beside him. Harry gave him a smile he knew was wavery. Hermione came up behind him and touched his arm, her face bright with concern.  
  
“The Dementors affect people like that sometimes, you know,” she whispered. “It doesn’t make you weak.”  
  
Harry nodded, so she wouldn’t think he was ignoring her, but didn’t say anything. He knew it made him weak, it made him a baby, just like crying from an injury did. And he had to find some way to overcome it. There had to be _some_ way to fight Dementors. He’d find it. Maybe Professor Lupin would know a way.  
  
In the meantime, he had a lot to think about as Ron and Hermione hauled him aboard one of the carriages that moved by itself and they trundled towards Hogwarts.  
  
His summer had been horrible, just like always. The Dursleys didn’t give him much food, and there was always a new list of chores just as he finished the old one, which meant no time to really _rest_. Aunt Petunia tended to shout him out of bed at the crack of dawn and insist that he do the weeding and the watering in the garden. Harry had thought at first she was trying to give him a chance to do the outside chores before it got too hot, but then he heard her telling Uncle Vernon that she’d read it was good to water one’s garden in the morning.  
  
 _Of course_ , he thought, rolling his head until his forehead rested against the window, so he could watch Hogwarts grow bigger and bigger. _I don’t know why I keep expecting them to have some sort of consideration for me._  
  
And then he had blown up Aunt Marge, and then he had heard about Sirius Black and how he was after him. And the Dementors were hanging around the Express, and the castle, too; Harry could feel the chill crawling up his spine. He didn’t know what they were doing there, exactly, but he bet it had something to do with him. Horrible things revolving around the school did, generally.  
  
He remembered something then, and snorted to himself, closing his eyes; they still had a little bit of time to go before they’d arrive at Hogwarts’s gates.  
  
 _At least I should have more than enough excuse to avoid pressure from Snape and Malfoy. Who’s going to want to hang around someone condemned to be hunted by a criminal and who faints when he sees Dementors and screams for his Mum?_  
  
Ron and Hermione’s voices came to him, already arguing about how much study was necessary before their classes began, and Harry smiled without opening his eyes.  
  
 _Besides my best friends, I mean._  
  
But the part of the school year where Snape had come into the Chamber after him and Malfoy had insisted on being Harry’s friend already seemed like a dream. It had almost immediately after he got back to the Dursleys’ house. Hard work and lots of hunger and little sleep—he’d had nightmares about the basilisk and Tom Riddle, too, just to add the perfect topping to the summer—were the reality.   
  
Besides, he didn’t think that they really had a reason to meet together anymore, since he had decided not to use the potion against Seamus.  
  
*  
  
 _This is not acceptable._   
  
Severus Snape was the one who controlled circumstances within his own life. If he had to make a choice that went against his inclinations, he made it in a way that left him with the maximum of freedom. He had spied for Dumbledore against the Dark Lord, but he had not given his unconditional loyalty to the ideals that Dumbledore “embodied,” in the way that James Potter and his friends had.  
  
Severus could feel his lip curl and his eyes fill with disgust. Of course, that didn’t matter at the moment, since he was circulating through a Potions classroom filled with Gryffindors and Longbottom had just melted _another_ cauldron, but it still paid to know what his face was doing.  
  
James Potter and his friends were one of the few circumstances in his life that Severus had not been able to control or surmount, and now one of them had come back to teach at Hogwarts. As if that were not enough, Dumbledore had charged Severus with making the Wolfsbane Potion for the flea-bitten cur, and made him promise not to hint that Lupin was a werewolf.   
  
When Severus had protested, Dumbledore had looked at him over his spectacles and spoken the quiet, devastating words that Severus had no counter for. “And I had thought you wished to make up for Lily’s death, Severus. This is a little thing I ask you to do, truly.”  
  
So Severus would have been predisposed to be in a bad mood this year without any additional encouragement, the only spark of cheer remaining to him the fact that no Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor seemed to last more than a year. At the very least, he should not have to endure Lupin’s good-natured cowardice later than June.  
  
But then, _this_ had happened.  
  
He stepped up beside Potter and looked into his cauldron, letting the expression of disdain on his face speak for him. Yes, Potter’s potion was a little better than it would have been last year, but still not good enough to justify any praise.  
  
Potter didn’t look up. Oh, his brow creased and his eyes flashed, showing that he had not gone back to the lifeless apathy of the last autumn. But he continued chopping ingredients and consulting the recipe with his four-eyed squint, as if Severus were of no consequence.  
  
He had not come to Severus with one question this term. He had not attempted to ask what Severus might have learned about Finnigan’s family and connections over the summer (though, as a matter of fact, he had learned nothing; all his investigations reached a certain point and dissolved into air. Of course, that made him only more certain that there was something to discover, after all). When Severus had assigned Potter detention for failing to complete any step of a potion properly, he had cleaned the cauldrons and departed without speaking a word.  
  
The boy seemed to think that Severus would forget everything he had learned about Potter in the past year, and meanwhile _he_ could forget that Severus had come into the Chamber to rescue him and had—learned what he had learned about Potter’s morals and his House allegiances.  
  
It was insulting.  
  
It was not acceptable.  
  
It displeased him.  
  
But Severus was intelligent enough to realize that few baits to lure the boy back would work. They were no longer working on a potion. He did not have enough concrete information about Finnigan and where he might have learned the Dark spell that burned the boy’s possessions to construct a good lie, and Potter would manage to see to the bottom of a weak one in the end. Severus’s goal was to pull the boy closer and to see exactly how much of a Slytherin he was. He had decided over the summer that Potter was interesting enough to warrant that much.   
  
_Potter_ did not get to decide that their association was at an end.  
  
Now he had only to decide what would work—  
  
And then the current of his earlier thoughts swirled through his brain as he watched one of the children working with the aconite this potion needed, and he felt the corners of his lips pull up into a thin smile.   
  
Longbottom melted his second cauldron of the day, out of sheer nervousness. Severus made a mental note to smile more often.  
  
*  
  
Draco glared at the back of Potter’s head as he walked with his little friends, laughing and chattering, on the way to Care of Magical Creatures.  
  
He’d been doing that a lot lately.  
  
But Potter was _avoiding him_. He’d muttered hullo to Draco when they crossed paths a few times, and he hadn’t taunted him, and he’d dragged the Weasel away when the red-head had started to make a remark about Draco’s father. (Draco had almost felt like saying that he had more reason to think badly of Lucius than Weasel did).  
  
But he hadn’t come up to include him in any adventures. He hadn’t talked to Draco like a normal person. He hadn’t asked him how his summer was.   
  
It was like he was trying to pretend that their friendship didn’t happen. Or maybe he was thinking that, with a convict after him and Dementors all around the school, it was too “dangerous” for Draco to associate with him.  
  
 _Or maybe he just hates Slytherins, again. Because he’s avoiding Professor Snape, too._  
  
Draco had watched Professor Snape watching Potter, though, and he didn’t think the professor would simply accept the dismissal. Nor did Draco intend to. He was going to have real friendship or real rivalry, not this—this half-thing that hovered between them both.  
  
The Great Giant Git was going on about hippogriffs. Draco saw no need to pay attention. Yeah, hippogriffs were big and potentially destructive, but they couldn’t make his face get all flushed and his mind get all blurred with anger the way the boy standing a few paces away from him and studiously ignoring him could.  
  
And then Potter stepped forwards and bowed to a hippogriff, and the hippogriff bowed back and knelt down and let him climb on its back.  
  
As he circled over them, dipping towards the lake and then soaring back towards the clouds again, Draco heard Potter laugh.  
  
It increased his anxiety and his anger, and then he realized he was actually clenching his fists in jealousy. Jealousy. Of a damn _hippogriff_ , that it could make Potter laugh and Draco couldn’t.  
  
He hastily unclenched his fists and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. Only Vince and Greg had, and they were looking at him eagerly to see who they should hit. Draco shook his head, and they relaxed with disappointed expressions.  
  
The hippogriff circled back to earth, and the Great Giant Git instructed them to come forwards and try greeting the creatures. He was as horrible a teacher as Draco had always suspected. Of course, it didn’t help that he had that accent that made him sound like someone from the lower classes.  
  
And then Draco thought of a grand, _wonderful_ idea. Maybe Potter was avoiding Draco because he had no reason to notice him. Draco had stopped fighting with him, so Potter didn’t have that reason to think about him. And they weren’t meeting in Snape’s detentions any more so that he could tutor Potter in Potions.  
  
So he had to do something Potter couldn’t ignore. He had to beat him at something.  
  
No matter what the Great Giant Git said, hippogriffs weren’t that smart. They couldn’t possibly recognize an insult if they heard it. Draco would coolly insult the hippogriff Potter had ridden, then hop on its back and sail away—and he’d do _that_ more smoothly, too. Then Potter would have no choice but to recognize that Draco could do something better than he could, and get away with it.  
  
So he bowed to the hippogriff, and straightened with a bored expression. Sure enough, the hippogriff bowed back even so.  
  
 _See? They don’t care what people think of them._  
  
Draco reached out to caress its beak, addressing his remarks apparently to Vince and Greg but keeping his eye on Potter. “They’re not all that handsome at all, just great ugly brutes—“  
  
The hippogriff twisted its head and clamped its beak on Draco’s arm.  
  
Draco screamed. The pain was worse than anything he’d felt before, even the time he’d fallen off his practice broom and fractured his elbow. He tugged, but the hippogriff held on, working its beak in a sawing motion, trying to separate his flesh from the bone. And then one of those great taloned feet rose up, trying to open his belly.  
  
  
*  
  
Harry reacted without thinking. There was someone in danger right in front of him. He couldn’t _not_ save them.   
  
Or, at least, that was what he told Ron and Hermione later, when they asked why he’d done it.  
  
He just knew at the time that he saw Buckbeak about to hurt Malfoy, or hurt him worse, and he couldn’t let that happen. Because Malfoy was someone he knew.  
  
He cast the spell that Hermione had cast that first year, when they’d all thought Snape was trying to hex him on his broom during the Quidditch match. This time, the fire came up right under Buckbeak’s left hind foot.   
  
The hippogriff let go of Malfoy at once and spun around, stamping his hoof and squealing. Harry felt a pang of guilt as he watched Buckbeak sputter and dance. He was apparently too scared to spread his wings and take off. _Sorry. I’m sorry. But I couldn’t let you hurt him worse._   
  
The other students scattered. Hagrid came up, bellowing. Harry was confident he’d be able to handle Buckbeak and stop him from hurting anyone else or himself.  
  
And then he spun around and ran to where Malfoy sat on the ground, his arm deeply scratched and bleeding, tears pouring down his face.   
  
Emotions jumped up and down inside Harry, clamoring for their turn. Irritation—it was Malfoy’s fault for ignoring Hagrid and provoking Buckbeak. Guilt—Harry probably could have done something if he’d acted faster. Sympathy—he’d had a scratch like that this summer when the pruning shears slipped, and of course the Dursleys had refused to do anything but toss towels at him until he bound it up. Concern—Malfoy probably needed to go to the infirmary, but he probably also needed to be healed before then, and there was no professor around but Hagrid.  
  
But maybe Harry could do _something_ to help. He pointed his wand at Malfoy’s arm and muttered the charm that Flitwick had taught them to seal envelopes and scrolls. “ _Consigno_.”  
  
Skin closed messily over Malfoy’s scratch, and the blood stopped pouring. Harry nodded. It still looked messy, but at least Malfoy wouldn’t bleed to death before they got him to the hospital wing.  
  
“Harry!” Hermione was beside him, her eyes wide and worried. “It’s dangerous to try a spell like that to heal a wound.”  
  
“What are you doing, mate?” Ron was behind him, his voice wary. He remembered their temporary truce with Malfoy last year, Harry knew, but Harry hadn’t said anything about it continuing this year—mostly because he’d been trying to convince himself he couldn’t possibly be friends with a Slytherin, it was too dangerous and too hard.  
  
Malfoy looked directly at Harry, his face twisted up with rage and pain, and said, “I did that for you.”  
  
“What?” Harry said blankly. He heard his friends muttering behind him, but he couldn’t tell if it was because of what Malfoy had said or the fact that Harry was speaking to him before them.  
  
“I thought I’d show you I could ride a hippogriff better,” said Malfoy. “And look where it got me.” He lifted his sealed arm pathetically.  
  
Irritation won the contest among Harry’s emotions. “You should have listened to Hagrid,” he snapped. “He _told_ us not to insult the hippogriffs if we were trying to ride them. Why did you?”  
  
“Because I wanted you to _pay attention_ to me.”  
  
Malfoy had a horrible expression on his face as he spoke. And Harry knew it was horrible because he recognized it. He had seen it when he lingered on the playground at his primary school, not daring to approach the other children because Dudley would only beat him up if he did, and looked into rain puddles, trying to pretend he was thinking about big and important things. That expression was on his face.  
  
Malfoy wanted a _friend_.   
  
And for some reason, he had decided that friend had to be Harry.  
  
But Harry had no time to respond, because by that time Hagrid had got Buckbeak under control and was coming to scoop Malfoy up in his arms and carry him to the infirmary. So Harry couldn’t answer him.  
  
But he had a lot to think about.   
  
_That was still a stupid thing to do.  
  
But if he wants to be my friend that badly…_  
  
For some reason, where he only should have been irritated that Malfoy had tried to gain his friendship _that_ way, he felt a squiggle of warmth.  
  
He hadn’t had anyone actually _compete_ to be his friend before. He had met Ron and Hermione both mostly by chance, and then got to know them best because they defeated a troll together. He’d really thought that was the only way to make friends, because they were the only friends he had and he hadn’t got many others in the last two years here.  
  
 _But maybe there’s another way_ , he thought, and turned to answer Ron and Hermione’s questions.   
  
*  
  
Severus was not master of his own life; the Mark on his arm and the vows that tied him to Dumbledore reminded him of that every day. But he was a master of doing what he could to make his own life easier, and that included choosing his moments for action carefully.  
  
He had waited several weeks after Draco’s injury. Draco had remained in the infirmary a few days longer than necessary, and to Severus’s certain knowledge, Potter had tried to see him at least twice, only to be rebuffed. And since then, Draco had gone about the school, ignoring Potter ostentatiously and retelling the story of how he had almost died several times.  
  
Potter had started to receive lessons from Lupin in casting the Patronus Charm. Lupin wasn’t subtle enough to keep his gloating about the talents of “James’s son’ out of conversations with other professors.  
  
He had continued to avoid Severus, which had proven conclusively that he no longer associated Draco with Severus in his mind, and whilst he might be anxious to win the friendship of the one, he didn’t think he had to work at earning the regard of the other.  
  
Severus would make sure that such matters were resolved to his own benefit.  
  
And so he assigned the boy a detention that day in class, though, in truth, his potion looked no worse than Vincent Crabbe’s. Potter jerked and gave him a hateful glance, then appeared to remember that he was ignoring Severus and dropped his eyes.  
  
Severus did not actually care. He would have the boy to himself for a few hours that night. He thought Draco unlikely to interfere this time, since he appeared to enjoy inducing guilt in Potter at the moment more than he did watching him.  
  
And Severus would lay his bait well.  
  
*  
  
Harry stepped into Snape’s office and paused. This time, there was no stack of cauldrons waiting for him. He grimaced. That meant he was probably pulling out frog livers or something.  
  
Snape was sitting behind his desk, writing something on an essay, but he only scrawled a few more words with a flourish before he stood up to confront Harry. Harry braced himself, determined to say nothing. His potion today hadn’t even been bad, which only proved that Snape was really as mean as Harry had always thought he was and would give detentions for nothing.  
  
 _He’s probably angry because I didn’t want to let him use the potion on Seamus,_ Harry decided. He waited for insults.  
  
Instead, Snape scrutinized him with a narrow smile and narrower eyes that Harry didn’t like at all. Then he said, casually, “I had thought we had somewhat of an understanding last year, Mr. Potter, after I had risked my life pursuing you into the Chamber. Where has that understanding gone?”  
  
Harry scowled. He hated it when people confronted him directly about these things. It was hard to lie to Ron and Hermione about the reasons he felt responsible for Malfoy being injured, and it was hard to tell Snape the reasons behind his decisions, because no matter how he explained it, they wouldn’t understand him.  
  
 _The Dursleys never understand me_ , he thought sullenly, _and neither does McGonagall._  
  
“I have a convict after me this year,” he said. He hesitated, but there was nothing for it, so he finished, “And you heard the way I reacted to the Dementors on the train.”  
  
“I understand you fainted, yes,” said Snape, with a calmness that made Harry stare at him suspiciously. “Which is why you are receiving extra lessons from Professor Lupin. I do not understand what this has to do with your avoiding me.”  
  
“I _fainted_ ,” Harry said flatly, and waited for him to get it.  
  
Snape arched an eyebrow and said nothing.  
  
“You’re always expecting me to be strong,” Harry said. “You make fun of me when I react to you in class. You were going to make fun of me for fainting, and you’d probably say it was my fault for having Sirius Black after me, too. So I wanted to stay away from you.”  
  
 _There. That explanation is so simple that even Snape must understand it._  
  
*  
  
Severus had found the key to another piece of the child’s twisted psyche, one he had seen hinted at in the Chamber but not heard stated outright.  
  
 _He resists tears when he can. He resents the implication that he is weak in any way. He did not even want to have Poppy check him for basilisk venom._  
  
Severus concealed a sigh. He had hoped that he might have the understanding with Potter that he had with some of his Slytherins: he would not openly give them advice or help in class, where other students would notice and wonder about their deficiencies, but they would come to him outside class, and he would give them extra tutoring. He had done more than that, on occasion, when a student spoke to him about use of Dark Arts or illegal potions.   
  
Of course, with none of those students had he used so contemptuous a mask as he did with Potter. He supposed the boy would have coped with indifference better than insults.  
  
On the other hand, Severus had no choice but to keep on as he had been. If—when—the Dark Lord returned, he had to be ready to resume his place as a spy so that he might keep his vows to Dumbledore to make up for telling the Dark Lord the prophecy. So he would have to make Potter trust him in spite of that.   
  
_Perhaps I will have to be a little—warmer—with him in detentions like this._  
  
Severus grimaced, and decided to try and see what knowledge would work first.  
  
“I do not blame you for fainting, or for having a convict after you,” he told the boy quietly, and began his gambit. “Considering that I knew Sirius Black when he was a young man, and his relation to your parents, I cannot very well blame you.”  
  
Potter took a step forwards, a flame so bright burning in his eyes that Severus was a bit surprised he had not been blinded by it. “His relation to my parents?” he demanded. “I heard—I mean, I’ve heard parts of stories, but no one will tell me the truth.” And already he was retreating, his face becoming suspicious again, as if he had realized that he couldn’t count on his nasty Potions Professor to tell him the truth, either.  
  
“Sirius Black was your father’s dearest friend,” Severus said. “They were in Gryffindor House together when they were young, and constantly played pranks together.”  
  
The flame returned to Potter’s eyes. “I didn’t know that,” he said, and wrapped his arms around himself as if he were hugging the knowledge close.  
  
Another flash of insight startled and unsettled Severus. _He has perhaps even more reason to value the truth than usual. After the way the Finnigan brat burned his possessions, he would hold more fiercely to those things that cannot be physically destroyed._  
  
“And,” Severus continued, knowing that no one else was likely to give Potter the full details of the story, “Professor Lupin was also their friend.”  
  
Potter twitched. Then he frowned and said, “But he’s never mentioned that to me.”  
  
“He wouldn’t, would he?” Severus couldn’t tell Potter that Lupin was a werewolf without breaking his word to Dumbledore, but he had prepared for this, and there were other words he could use. “He had some interest in distancing himself from the memories, I believe, after Black betrayed your parents.”  
  
It was interesting, to watch Potter’s face go gray, though Severus didn’t care much for the way he swayed and reached out as if he wanted to clutch something. Merlin keep him from having to deal with any fainting children.  
  
“Sirius Black…betrayed my parents,” Potter whispered.  
  
“Yes.” Severus wondered now if he should have chosen gentler words, but Potter was continually bragging that he was strong. _Let us see how he bears this_. “He was their Secret-Keeper—the one responsible for making sure that Voldemort did not discover the house where your parents were hiding. But he betrayed them. And he killed Peter Pettigrew, who was your father’s third friend in their schooldays, and a dozen Muggles at the same time.”  
  
“I heard about _that_ ,” said Potter quietly. He wrapped his arms around himself again, but this time, Severus thought the meaning of the gesture was distinctly different. “But no one told me who the wizard was.” He stared hard suddenly at Severus. “I heard Mr. and Mrs. Weasley talking about it. Would _they_ have known who Pettigrew was? And that Sirius Black was close to my parents in school?”  
  
“The last,” Severus said smoothly, “I have no idea about. Arthur and Molly had left Hogwarts before your parents arrived. But I think they would have some idea who Pettigrew was, yes. They fought beside your parents, Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew in the war.” And _that_ was as much as he could tell Potter without revealing that the Order of the Phoenix existed.  
  
“Why didn’t they tell me?” Potter’s eyes were dull now.  
  
“Arthur and Molly did not tell their own children about certain basic realities of life when they were your age, either.” Severus shrugged. “I think they believe children should be protected from those realities.”  
  
“And why did _you_ tell me?” Abruptly, Potter was staring at him.  
  
It was the one question Severus had hoped he wouldn’t ask, but he had prepared to deal with this, too. “Because Sirius Black is after you in particular,” he said. “And you have grown up without this story, I believe?” Potter gave a jerky nod. “I thought it was time you knew more about what the man you have battled so blithely twice is capable of,” Severus added. “Black became a Death Eater—one of the Dark Lord’s followers—and no one knew. The Dark Lord is convincing. And, of course, you should know that Black is eager to kill you because of a personal grudge, not only because you brought down his Lord.” _And mine, as some would say_.  
  
“Personal grudge?” Potter repeated blankly.  
  
 _How can the boy be intelligent enough to ask some uncomfortable questions and yet ignorant enough not to pick up on the most obvious implications of my own speech_? “Because he tried to get you killed when he betrayed your parents,” Severus explained patiently, “and yet he didn’t manage.”  
  
“Oh.” Potter swallowed noisily. Then he said, “You could be lying.”  
  
“There is an easy enough way to confirm that,” Severus said softly, and thus showed the bait at the heart of his trap. “Go to Professor Lupin. If he tells you otherwise, then you’ll know not to trust me.”  
  
Potter stared at him, then turned and marched out of the office without asking if he could leave, or if his detention was over.  
  
Severus did not care. He had done several things with this night’s work, and so was pleased for the first time since Potter had returned in September.  
  
He had given Potter a possible reason to distrust Lupin, and he would just as soon that Potter did not become too fond of the werewolf.  
  
He had given Potter facts he should have had long ago. He _did_ seem to function better with more directly given information, as he had proved in Potions. If it encouraged him to keep his foolish life safer from Sirius Black, then the revelations were all to the good.   
  
And he had encouraged Potter to trust him, to think of him as the one adult who actually did believe he was mature enough to hear the truth, and that would bear interesting, amusing fruits of its own.   
  
Now he had only to wait.  
  
*  
  
Harry ran through the corridors with his heart blurring in his ears. He had _enjoyed_ his lessons with Professor Lupin in the Patronus Charm, though there hadn’t been very many of them; Professor Lupin had said he would have more time to teach Harry after Christmas. And he liked the way Lupin taught, and the way he tried to give them practical lessons as well as theoretical ones, which Harry actually _understood_ , not like the ones in Potions.  
  
But Professor Lupin hadn’t so much as let on once that he’d known Harry’s parents, or Sirius Black.  
  
 _Why does everyone who could tell me about them have to keep so quiet_? Harry wondered, as he slid to a stop in front of the door to Lupin’s office, which still had a line of light under it, and hammered on the wood. _Why did it have to be Snape who told me about them?_  
  
Lupin opened the door, smiling, but his face became concerned at once when he saw Harry. “Harry, what’s the matter?”  
  
“Professor,” Harry blurted, his heartbeat so loud that he almost didn’t know if he’d be able to hear the answer, “did you know my parents? And Sirius Black? Were you my father’s friend?”  
  
Lupin gasped in a sharp breath. For a moment, he looked over Harry’s shoulder as if he expected to see Black lurking in the corridor. Then he bent down and whispered, “Harry, I need to know who told you that.”  
  
“Professor Snape.” Harry said it defiantly. _Let it not be true, let it not be true_.  
  
Lupin stood up straight, looking relieved for some reason. “Harry, you have to realize that Professor Snape didn’t get along with your father, and he has some biases concerning him,” he began.  
  
“He didn’t talk much about him,” Harry said. “Just you, and Sirius Black. _Please_ , I have to know—did you know him?”  
  
Lupin sighed a sigh that seemed to come from his toes. “Yes, Harry. I did. I miss them all—Peter, and James, and Lily, and Sirius from before he became a traitor. But you have to understand—“  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
“Because I did not think you were yet ready to hear that,” said Lupin gently. “And I was right. You see that Professor Snape’s information has made you terribly upset—“  
  
“I’m _tired_ of people not telling me things,” Harry said, so loudly that Professor Lupin looked a little startled. “Why—“ He choked. “If you were my parents’ friend, why didn’t _you_ adopt me after Black betrayed them? Why did I have to end up with the Dursleys?”  
  
Lupin sighed again. “That concerns something I can’t tell you, Harry. But, as Dumbledore explained it to me, your parents’ will mandated it. Lily’s sister was the only one able to take care of you, after—“ He shut up.  
  
“Who did they want to take care of me?” Harry whispered. “I have to know. Please. I have to know.”  
  
“Sirius was your godfather,” Lupin said unwillingly. “But obviously, he was—unavailable—“  
  
“Bloody mad, is what you mean,” Harry interrupted furiously, “and a traitor besides.”  
  
“Harry—“  
  
“I don’t—just don’t talk to me right now, all right?” Harry backed a step away. He didn’t want to talk to or look at Professor Lupin right now. He liked the man, he wanted to continue the lessons in the Patronus Charm, but he would have to get used to the fact that Lupin had lied to him first.  
  
Lupin reached out a hand, his eyes weary and kind. But his words weren’t. “Harry, there were good reasons for keeping this from you. Please believe me.”  
  
But Harry didn’t have to, and he spun away and ran wildly towards Gryffindor Tower, so that he could find Ron and play wizarding chess or Exploding Snap with him, or even listen to one of Ron and Hermione’s endless arguments about her cat, Crookshanks, tormenting his rat, Scabbers.  
  
 _Lupin lied. Everybody lies.  
  
Except Snape.   
  
Snape didn’t lie. _  
  
*  
  
“Severus.”  
  
 _Well, and that is a difference_ , Severus thought, turning to face Lupin. Usually, the wolf never bothered to greet him with anything less than a perfectly pleasant front, as if he truly believed that he and Severus could become friends after the torment and bullying of their schooldays. But now Lupin looked like the predator he was, his eyes burning and his fingers curling around his teacup like claws.  
  
“Lupin,” Severus said, and inclined his head. “It is not like you to choose to sit beside me.” Due to Severus’s own request, he and Lupin were usually separated by several places at the High Table. Now the wolf sat down in the chair beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world and leaned in, never once considering how strange this would look to any outside observers. Severus checked a sigh, knowing he would have to answer some questions from his elder Slytherins tonight.  
  
“You told Harry secrets that weren’t yours to share,” Lupin began forcefully.  
  
“And when were you going to share them?” Severus flicked his glance to the Gryffindor table. Potter was eating with grim determination, his eyes fixed ahead of him as if Black were present and he could set fire to him with his glare. Draco was picking at the bandage on his arm and at his food, now and then shooting furtive looks at Potter. It was the first morning since his injury that Potter hadn’t given him at least one hopeless look. Perhaps his curiosity would be enough to drive him to reconcile with Potter, Severus thought. He was growing tired of Draco’s whinging about the subject whenever he came to Severus for extra Potions lessons.  
  
“When he was an _adult_ ,” said Lupin. “And of age to _understand_.”  
  
Severus laughed; Minerva turned her head, but luckily she was having an animated discussion about Quidditch with Rolanda and didn’t try to listen long. “You would wait until he was _seventeen_ , Lupin? With Black stalking him _this_ year?”  
  
Lupin sat back in his chair and gave him a look of pure disgust. “You have no idea how to treat children, Severus. Harry is a child, and should be allowed to be one.”  
  
“He has not one but two psychopaths stalking him now,” said Severus, forcing away the smile that wanted to form. “He needs information to deal with them. Training. At the very least, I think he should be allowed to know why his life is in danger.”  
  
“Albus agreed with me—“  
  
“Albus has a strange blindness regarding the boy,” Severus said, this time flicking his eyes towards the Headmaster. As usual, Albus was talking with the great oaf Hagrid about something utterly inconsequential, but Severus knew he would probably listen in to any conversation involving his name. Severus did not care. He was prepared to defend his conduct in the name of getting over his grudge against the Potter brat. Albus could not but approve of _that_. “He, too, wants to pretend that Potter is an ordinary child. He is not. He killed a basilisk last year, Lupin. He faced the Dark Lord the year before that. You will not make him into an ordinary child through trying.”  
  
“But we could at least give him a _childhood_.” Lupin shook his head chidingly at Severus. “Harry came to me last night, deeply upset. You could have found a way to break the news to him more gently.”  
  
“So could you have,” Severus said. “Why didn’t you?”  
  
“You know why.” One of Lupin’s hands closed on the table.  
  
“Your little _secret_ has nothing to do with why you did not want to tell him of Sirius Black,” said Severus. “You merely did not wish to rake up your own pain. Your loyalty to the dead and the mad outweighs your loyalty to the living. Truly commendable, Lupin.”  
  
The wolf rose and stalked away. Severus looked back at the Gryffindor table to meet Potter’s sulky, judgmental eyes.  
  
Severus raised an eyebrow, and Potter frowned before turning away.  
  
 _Let him think about it_ , Severus thought, spreading marmalade on his toast. _He may well need a few days to get over his resentment at the “ungentle” way I broke the news to him.  
  
But he will have received confirmation that I am the only adult in this school he can trust to answer his questions. _  
  
And this victory over Potter’s mistrust was, at the same time, a victory over Lupin and Dumbledore.  
  
Severus knew that was the reason for the feeling of warm pleasure that spread through his chest when he thought about Potter coming to him with more questions.


	7. Strength

  
Harry just stood gazing at the Firebolt for long moments, his hands moving slowly up and down the shaft of the broom. His heart and his lungs both seemed small; it was hard to breathe, to feel his heart beating.  
  
Someone had sent him another broom to replace his lost Nimbus. It was a Christmas gift. It was like the gifts he had received from Hagrid, from Dumbledore, from the Weasleys. It had given him back the skies, and possibly the Quidditch team, if Oliver Wood and McGonagall would agree to let him rejoin the team so late in the year.  
  
It was a gift he would always keep safe.   
  
He had just started to lift his wand so he could cast protective charms on it when he felt someone tugging on the bristles. He whirled around. Hermione faltered when she saw the expression on his face, but she continued to pull on the broom.  
  
“Harry,” she said grimly, “it could be from Sirius Black. It could be a _trap_. Remember the way Quirrell hexed your broom and tried to make you fall off in first year? Well, Black’s a Death Eater, too! Maybe he’s just taking the easier route this time!”   
  
She was almost in tears, but Harry didn’t care. No one was taking his broom away to test it for hexes. He might not get it back again. Someone might decide to take it; he didn’t think McGonagall, who he was sure Hermione intended to give the broom to, always kept her office locked. Or Seamus might find out that the broom was Harry’s and destroy it.  
  
“No,” Harry said, in a voice that made Hermione take a step back. “I don’t care. It’s _mine_.”  
  
“Harry—”  
  
“I’ll test it for Dark Arts spells myself,” Harry said. He almost added, _I know someone who can do that_ , but then remembered that Hermione and Ron had never known how much Professor Snape had helped him last year. And he hadn’t told them what Snape had said about his parents, either. He wanted to have the knowledge in private for a little while. “I’ll find the books. I’ll ask Professor Lupin.” There. That would do. Ron and Hermione knew he was receiving lessons from Lupin in the Patronus Charm.  
  
Hermione leaned forwards, her hands clasped in front of her. “But, Harry,” she said, speaking so fast Harry almost heard babble, “you might miss something. It might be dangerous. It really needs to be taken away and tested extensively, maybe destroyed if—”  
  
The next moment, she shrieked and clapped a hand to her cheek. Ron, who had been watching them both in alarm, jumped back. “Harry, did you just _hex_ her?” he demanded.  
  
“It was a Stinging Hex,” Harry said, and turned away, cradling the broom in both hands as he carried it to the bed. “That’s all. A little spark.”  
  
Ron’s voice was angry. “Mate, I can’t believe you’d do that over a _broom_.”   
  
“It’s _mine_ ,” said Harry, and climbed into the bed, and hugged the broom.  
  
Ron and Hermione argued with him, or tried. Harry lay there and pretended not to listen until they went away. Then he opened his eyes and stroked the broom’s bristles softly, admiringly.  
  
At the moment, he really didn’t care if Sirius Black was a Death Eater. He had done the thing that had made Harry feel the best since Seamus had destroyed the Invisibility Cloak and his other things. He could almost have showed up and tried to kill him, for that. At the very least, Harry would have listened if he wanted to talk.  
  
Wings fluttered above him. Harry sat up. If Hermione had found McGonagall and had her send him a letter saying that he had to give up the broom, Harry wouldn’t read it.  
  
But it was an owl from the twins, who Mrs. Weasley had demanded spend the Christmas holidays at home because she wanted to keep them from playing any pranks at Hogwarts as long as she could. Harry opened the envelope, and a piece of many-times-folded parchment fell out. Harry picked it up, but it was blank.  
  
He blinked, and read the twins’ letter.  
  
 _Happy Christmas, Harry!  
  
We thought and thought about what to get you for a present for Christmas, and finally we hit the perfect thing. This is a map we found during our first year in Hogwarts. It shows the secret tunnels in the school and the people walking around._  
  
Harry glanced doubtfully at the parchment, wondering if the twins had found a way to play tricks under Mrs. Weasley’s nose after all.  
  
 _Now we’re giving it to you. We think you need it more than us. You tap the map with your wand and say, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” to activate it. When you’re done, tap it with your wand and say, “Mischief managed,” and the map goes away again. Try it!  
  
Gred and Forge (we have to go, Mum’s after us for turning one of the gnomes in the back garden into a spider and trying to send it to Ron)._  
  
Harry spent some time staring at the “map,” and wondering if he wanted to trust the twins. But then he shrugged lightly, placed his broom carefully under the bed and out of the way, and tapped his wand on the parchment. “I solemnly swear I’m up to no good,” he whispered.  
  
Before his dazzled eyes, lines raced across the map. Harry bent over it eagerly, watching as it became the corridors, and corners, and tunnels, and rooms of Hogwarts. In each place a person was, there was a small dot with the person’s name beside it. It was rather empty right now, but Harry could only imagine how full it would be when everyone came back from Christmas holidays.  
  
He would have to write an enthusiastic letter to the twins, he decided. But later. For now, his eyes focused on the dot labeled _Severus Snape_ in the dungeons, and he retrieved the broom. He was sure Snape would demand some payment, but Harry was perfectly willing to scrub some cauldrons or skin some snakes.  
  
He needed to know about Dark Arts spells.   
  
*  
  
“And I have another Christmas gift for you, Draco.”  
  
Draco looked up and arranged his face into a pleased smile. Really, he wanted to be left alone to read the book of wizarding history that his mum had got him, but one smiled when Lucius said something like this.  
  
His father lounged in a large, comfortable chair near the fireplace in the Manor’s grandest drawing room. Draco liked the room’s arched ceilings and bluish-green carpet so thick it felt like grass, but he didn’t like the way Lucius seemed to reorient all those things so that they pointed to him. It was a subtle trick, and one that he had said Draco would need to learn in order to gain respect in the future. Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to learn it.  
  
Lucius sipped from a glass of smoky wine and gave Draco a narrow smile in return. “I have commenced proceedings to have the beast who bit you executed.”  
  
Draco started. Since he had been home, he had almost forgotten about the wound. There was no Pansy Parkinson to pat him on the shoulder and coo at him about it, and there was no Potter to annoy and make guilty.  
  
 _Not that that last worked out too well_ , Draco had to admit. He thought Potter would scramble after him apologizing for the rest of term. Instead, it seemed as though Potter looked at him now and then, and felt sorry, and then dismissed him. He certainly hadn’t paid any attention to Draco in the last few days before Christmas, when he was furiously brooding on something else.  
  
Draco had to worry that maybe the glances he’d thought were Potter’s attention weren’t. He dropped them so easily. Maybe Potter had just looked across the room sometimes, and seen Draco in the way of his eyes, and suffered little twinges of guilt. But they weren’t big enough to make him try and be friends with Draco again.  
  
“Are you not pleased?”  
  
Lucius’s voice had become dangerous. Draco started for a different reason and immediately looked at his father and widened his smile into the smirk that Lucius would expect of him.  
  
“Of course, Father,” he said. “Very.” He paused a moment, to give the impression of thinking over a delicate situation, and then said, “I assume that all the objections have been dealt with, and the giant oaf won’t be able to save his pet?”  
  
Lucius laughed. “Indeed! Otherwise, I would have presented you with this gift considerably sooner.” He waved a hand. “Oh, the idiot will try some appeals, doubtless, and so will Dumbledore. But I have studied the laws carefully. The appeals will fail in time. The beast should be executed no later than May or June.” He nodded his head and leaned forwards. “And if it is after the school year, I promise, we will make a special expedition to Hogwarts so that you may see the savage creature die.”  
  
“I’d like that, Father, thank you.” Draco knew the words were empty when he said them, but he’d said emptier, and Lucius had never noticed.  
  
Lucius leaned back in his chair and smirked at him in return. Then he noticed his glass was empty and tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair. A house-elf appeared a moment later, pouring out more smoky wine with a subdued air.  
  
Draco winced. He had recognized the house-elf with one glance. It seemed that the day in the library had made it impossible for him to forget Dobby.  
  
One of the elf’s ears was missing. He had long scars up and down his shoulders and arms, and Draco shuddered; he knew house-elves could heal themselves from almost any abuse, so he wasn’t sure what had caused _that_. His left eye was covered with a weepy yellow film. Draco curled his lip as it dripped on the carpet.  
  
Luckily, of all his gestures, that was the one Lucius chose to see and interpret. He smiled again and put his hand on Dobby’s head, turning him forcefully around to face Draco. Dobby whimpered, but didn’t protest his rough treatment.  
  
“Yes, Draco,” said Lucius, shaking the elf slightly. “See the fate of those who defy me. This elf helped Harry Potter, or attempted to help him, during that small debacle last year.” He clucked his tongue. “He is sorry, aren’t you?”  
  
“Dobby is sorry,” said the elf, but in a dull voice that carried no conviction.   
  
Draco stared at him, and felt his stomach turn over. And he thought of his father’s offer to get the hippogriff that bit him executed, and it did the same thing.  
  
His father was—cruel.  
  
Oh, he’d known that before; it was one reason he was so careful about the way he reacted to Lucius. But Lucius had never touched Draco that way. He just spoke to him, words that sliced Draco apart inside. He had accepted that it was his father’s way of showing love and trying to make sure he was strong enough to go out and face the world of Mudbloods and half-bloods.  
  
But here he was hurting creatures and animals who couldn’t fight back.  
  
Draco felt a strained tension pulling tighter in his stomach as his father dismissed Dobby and began talking about something different, something connected with the Black inheritance Draco could possibly have through his mother. He didn’t like seeing Dobby hurt, even though he didn’t really know why.  
  
And he felt like he had to do something about it, but he didn’t know what.  
  
*  
  
“What kind of Dark Arts spell do you _think_ might be on it?” Severus asked, clinging to his patience with dozens of small, tiny hooks of self-interest. _Think of what your relationship with the boy will become if you can make him trust you. Think of what he will decide when it is your instruction, and not the werewolf’s, that saves his life_. As Severus had suspected, Lupin was a poor Defense teacher, giving the students instruction mostly in facing magical creatures, and not in identifying the spells and curses that could most easily hurt them.  
  
 _On the other hand, perhaps he feels a kinship with those creatures he shows the students_. Severus felt a small smile tugging at his lips. That was a fine piece of wit. Too bad that, due to Dumbledore’s instructions not to reveal that Lupin was a werewolf, he would not get to share it.  
  
Perhaps he should get Filius drunk. The Charms professor was vicious when filled with alcohol, apt to appreciate any jokes that Severus wanted to make.  
  
“A curse to break the broom in midair?” Potter offered at last.  
  
Severus turned back to the boy in front of him. Potter had one hand resting lightly on the Firebolt where it lay on the table in Severus’s office. He seemed unwilling to let go of it for a moment. Severus felt a brief stab of regret. If he had been wise, he would have offered the boy not only advice but also gifts, to replace the ones he had lost. However, if he did it now, it would seem he was merely imitating Black, or whoever had sent this broom.  
  
“And how would you detect such a spell?” Severus asked.  
  
Potter straightened his shoulders and glared. “I don’t know. Someone has removed most of the books on detecting specific curses from the library.”  
  
Severus kept his face impassive, but that was news to him, though he remembered Dumbledore doing something similar when he was a student, to “keep the children safe.” He would have to find out if that was the case again, or simply Madam Pince acting on some strange, book-protecting impulse of her own.   
  
“I will show you a general detection spell,” Severus said. “When once cast, it must be refined with the name of the spell you wish to detect.” He drew his wand and waved it in a long, slow arc above the Firebolt. Potter watched his motions with furiously attentive eyes.  
  
Severus restrained the impulse to chuckle. Lupin had accosted him again twice in the two weeks since Christmas, trying to demand that Severus tell the boy that the wolf had good reasons for concealing the truth from him. Apparently Potter had not been back for anything but a Patronus lesson in that time, and then he had avoided eye contact with Lupin.  
  
 _Remarkably similar to your behavior during your schooldays, trying to force someone else to do your defiance and dirty work for you_ , Severus had told Lupin, and the wolf had left in a rage.  
  
It was pleasant, however, not only to hurt the werewolf, but also to have a student who was as keen to learn as Potter was. Draco’s interest in Potions came from a natural talent for it; he would have tried to learn more even if it were Slughorn teaching the subject, Severus knew. He returned his attention to the spell as he slowly and clearly enunciated the syllables.  
  
“ _Deprehendo ancipitis_!”  
  
The broom began to glow, a fuzzy line of blue, boiling light connecting it and the tip of Severus’s wand. Potter sucked in a breath. “Does that mean it’s cursed?” he whispered.  
  
“No,” Severus said, teeth half-gritted as he resisted the tug of the incomplete spell. It wanted to be said, which was the main disadvantage of two-part magic; Severus had seen it destroy some competent wizards when they became distracted by an enemy and unable to finish the incantation. “Only that it awaits the spell we wish to detect. _Deprehendo abrumpo_!”  
  
The line of blue light and the invisible tension building in Severus both snapped at the same time. Potter’s face cleared as the last traces of blue dissipated. “So that means that it’s not cursed?”  
  
“It is not cursed with the particular spell that would cause it to break apart in midair,” Severus said. “There may be other Dark hexes on it. The _Deprehendo_ spell can find only one at a time.”  
  
Potter nodded, not even complaining about the amount of work the detection of other curses would involve, which was most unlike a Potter. Then he took up his wand. “How do I find another spell?” he asked.  
  
“You must know the incantation of the one you wish to detect,” Severus said. “ _Abrumpo_ is that of the spell that could destroy the broom. Thus the Curse Detection Spell, though powerful, is considered rather useless by some, because it requires extensive knowledge of curses.”  
  
Potter’s eyes shot to him. His breath caught, and for a long, cynical moment, Severus wondered if the boy would pass out on the floor. But then he shook his head and spoke with only a slight hitch in his speech. “That means I’d have to learn Dark Arts, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Are you afraid, Potter?” Severus added the most delicate trace of a sneer to his voice. If anything would goad a Gryffindor to continue study of the Dark Arts, it was the accusation of cowardice.  
  
And then he remembered, as he saw Potter’s eyes go hard, that this student was not entirely a Gryffindor, and he could have called himself a fool.   
  
“I’m trying to decide if I want to have Dark Arts in my head,” Potter said. “Voldemort is there already. And—other people.” He bit his lip, as though Severus had tried to force his way into his mind through Legilimency and he’d felt it. “It contaminates people, doesn’t it?”  
  
“The Dark Arts?” Severus overcame his surprise that he was having this particular discussion with this particular student and forced himself to speak evenly. “No more than the knowledge of other atrocities does. Do you feel lessened, or dirtied, because you know that Voldemort killed your parents? Because you know that Finnigan’s malice drove him to destroy your possessions?”  
  
Potter looked down at the floor and said nothing for long moments. Then he muttered, “I don’t have to _use_ it.”  
  
“No,” Severus agreed. “Though many wizards do, because the thought of having all that power within them is too tempting.”  
  
Potter looked up at him, blinking, and then laughed. Severus started. That was still not something he heard Potter do often.   
  
“Why would anyone want power?” Potter asked simply.  
  
Severus said nothing. He suspected this was one of the grounds on which the gap between Potter and himself was too wide to cross.  
  
“All right.” Potter stood with his wand out in front of him, the way he had when he faced Draco in the Dueling Club last year. “Teach me.”  
  
*  
  
Harry woke up that Friday morning fed up with the prickling tension that gathered at the base of his spine. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and sometimes nodding as he made up his mind.  
  
He’d had too many arguments lately, with everyone except Snape. There was the argument with Ron and Hermione over the Firebolt, which was only partially resolved. Hermione seemed soothed that he was getting “Lupin’s” help with detecting Dark curses on the broom, but she still wanted him not to use it for a few months. And Ron, caught awkwardly between his best friends because of the Stinging Hex Harry had used on Hermione, sometimes nodded along.  
  
Things were still tense with Lupin. Harry thought he could forgive him now, though. So Lupin had lied to him. It was nothing more than a lot of other adults in his life had done. And Lupin was a lot nicer than the Dursleys. Harry wasn’t going to trust him, except when it came to studying the Patronus Charm, but he could forgive him.  
  
And there was Malfoy.  
  
Harry sucked thoughtfully at his lip. He doubted that Ron and Hermione would approve of the bargain he wanted to make with Malfoy. On the other hand, he saw no choice but to make it if he was going to save Buckbeak’s life. Lucius Malfoy had started the proceedings to get Buckbeak executed, and Harry thought Draco was the only one who could persuade his father to change his mind.  
  
If Draco did that, then Harry was willing to be his friend.  
  
Harry heard the sounds of the other boys moving around then, and so he got up and got ready for the day.  
  
*  
  
Draco was surprised to see Potter looking at him thoughtfully in Potions class that morning. Since Christmas holidays, Potter hadn’t bothered paying attention to him at all, and so Draco had taken the bandage off his arm; under it, his wound from the hippogriff was long-healed. He’d also almost given up on thoughts of what he could do to get Potter to accept him again. His irritation with himself wouldn’t let him think of anything new, and his pride asked why he had to be the one to give in. Hadn’t he already said enough when he let Potter know why he’d insulted the hippogriff?  
  
But now Potter was looking at him.  
  
Draco lingered outside Potions, and sure enough, Potter caught him up. The Weasel stared at Potter with small, hard eyes, but the know-it-all swept past them as if they weren’t worth her time.  
  
“It’s all right, Ron,” Potter said calmly. His voice shook a little, but not enough that Draco thought Weasley would notice. “I’ll be there in a minute.”  
  
Weasley snorted softly, but turned away. Potter’s friends did seem a bit more eager to abandon him lately, Draco thought. He had the impression there’d been some sort of argument.  
  
He hoped not, though, a moment later. He couldn’t stand it if Potter was just seeking him out as a second-best replacement for one set of lost friends.  
  
“Listen, Malfoy,” Potter said, tugging them into a small alcove and casting the privacy ward that Draco had taught him last year. Draco felt a small flame of hope. Potter had remembered the spell, then, not rejected it in revulsion because it was a Slytherin who taught it to him. Maybe there was a reason to hope. “I know that your father’s planning to execute Buckbeak.”  
  
Draco felt his spine go stiff, his face chill. At least Potter blinked.  
  
“I have no interest in saving the wretched creature’s life,” Draco said. He knew he was at least half-lying, but Potter didn’t need to know that. Draco’s speculations about cruelty and morality since Christmas were just that, his. He turned his back and started to raise his wand to counteract the privacy ward.  
  
“It’s not only that,” said Potter, and caught his arm. Draco looked down. Potter’s hand rested right where the hippogriff scar was. Potter saw it a moment later, and he swallowed a little, but he didn’t take his hand away. He even leaned nearer, and Draco suffered a brief moment of dizziness. He didn’t know why, but having Potter this close and paying this much attention—civil attention, even—affected him as if he were falling off a broom.  
  
He hated the weakness, but he didn’t see that he could do anything about it. Potter had _always_ affected him that way.   
  
“I know you got injured because you wanted my attention,” Potter began.  
  
“I didn’t,” Draco said automatically, and then flushed when Potter shook his head.  
  
“I heard you say it,” Potter said. Luckily, he didn’t waste time taunting Draco about it. “Listen. I’m willing to be your friend again. It was your fault you got hurt, but knowing why you did it…” He trailed off, then took a deep breath and went on. “Listen, I’ve never had anyone try to be my friend as hard as you did. Even Ron and Hermione just sort of fell into it, and I think Ron wanted to be my friend at first because I was the Boy-Who-Lived. I’m willing to give you a chance.”  
  
Draco eyed him skeptically, keeping the excitement rising in his stomach at bay as best he could. “And what do you want in return?”  
  
Potter flushed this time. He looked at the floor and mumbled something.  
  
“Well?” Draco wished he could slap Potter’s hand away and stand tall and strong, the way his father would, but he doubted Potter would understand. And besides, the thought of being like Lucius now caused a slow swirl of dread to roll around in his stomach.   
  
“I want you to talk to your father about calling off the execution on Buckbeak,” Potter said quietly.  
  
“So there is a price.” Draco hadn’t realized his own voice could sound so bitter.  
  
“Yeah, there is.” Potter looked up at him almost candidly. “But I’ll still be your friend, even after that.”  
  
Draco stood there in silence for a long time, trying to decide if he thought Potter’s offer was insulting or not. On the one hand, he really would have wanted to be wanted for himself, and not because he could do something for Potter.  
  
On the other hand, he’d probably done too much to Potter for the other boy to just accept him now. And Potter must have waited to see some sign from Draco that he still cared about their friendship. Instead, Draco had kept on trying to guilt Potter before Christmas, even though he’d seen it didn’t work, and he hadn’t looked at him since then.  
  
And this was a way to relieve at least part of the cruelty Draco had decided he hated so much.  
  
“All right,” he said, and Potter’s face softened and shone in a way that made Draco embarrassed for him. Honestly, who _smiled_ that much? “But you have to do something else for me.”  
  
“Anything,” Potter said eagerly.  
  
“You need to help me get up the courage and come up with a way to confront my father,” Draco said harshly. “And I’m going to need Professor Snape’s help, too, not just yours.”  
  
Potter didn’t even hesitate, but clasped his hand.  
  
*  
  
“Come in, Harry.”  
  
Harry wondered for a moment how Professor Lupin had known it was him, but then decided he probably had detection spells on his door, or maybe Harry always knocked in a particular way and Lupin had noticed. Aunt Petunia had always been able to tell when it was Harry and not Dudley moving around on the stairs or in the kitchen.  
  
 _Though that’s only because Dudley is enormously fat_ , Harry thought, as he opened the office door, _and breaks things if he even tries to get his own breakfast._  
  
Lupin looked up and gave Harry a faint smile. There were always a few days every few weeks when he looked pale and worn. Harry sometimes wondered if he was sick, like a girl who had lived briefly on Privet Drive and had had leukemia, but he didn’t ask. He knew Lupin would only lie about it.  
  
“Ah, Harry,” he said. “Are you here for your next lesson in the Patronus Charm? Your last one was very good. You almost managed to produce a full one.”  
  
“Hi, Professor,” Harry said, and shut the door behind him, leaning against it. “I wanted to say that I’m used to people keeping secrets from me, so I think I can like you again.”  
  
Lupin took a deep breath and leaned forwards, his eyes bright and intent and his nose twitching for some reason. “Do you understand the _reasons_ I kept the secrets, Harry?” he asked yearningly. “Why I couldn’t explain to you, even though I wanted to?”  
  
“No,” Harry said. “Because you didn’t explain the reasons, you just said they were there.” _Honestly, adults are stupid. And they always want more than I want to give them_. Even Snape was like that, with the way that he kept pushing Harry to come for extra time practicing the Dark Arts lessons and the way he sometimes asked “casual” questions about how Harry was doing in other classes and his life before Hogwarts. Harry thought they got along pretty well as it was. He didn’t know why Snape wanted more.  
  
“I still can’t explain all of them,” said Lupin quietly. “Lives depend on my keeping these secrets.”  
  
Harry nodded politely, pretending to believe that. If that was the case, Lupin never would have admitted the truth when Harry confronted him.  
  
“But I can tell you that I wanted you to have a childhood.” Lupin looked at him with that same longing expression, which made Harry feel both pleased and a bit uncomfortable. It was the way Aunt Petunia sometimes looked at Dudley just before she exclaimed to one of her friends that “her little Dudders was growing up so fast.” “I wanted you to be an ordinary boy for a bit longer. I know you’ve done remarkable things, but you should have the chance to be normal, too. Don’t you want that?”  
  
Harry choked, because that was one of his own innermost desires. But he didn’t see any way to make it come true. Normal children didn’t grow up in cupboards, and they didn’t defeat Dark Lords. Maybe, when he’d made Voldemort go away forever, he could be normal, but he didn’t think he could now.  
  
But he knew the expression Lupin was using to look at him. It was the one adults always used when they thought they knew better, when they’d made some proclamation and just wanted you to agree. So Harry did. “Yes, Professor.”  
  
“Oh, good.” Lupin stood up, came around the desk, and extended his hand. Harry shook it. “So, if you want, you can ask me questions about your parents, Harry. Just—not big ones. But I’ll be happy to tell you what Lily’s favorite food was, or what subjects James liked in school.”  
  
Harry looked up at Lupin for long seconds in silence, the man’s hand clasped in his. Lupin looked so _earnest_. He had always looked like that, Harry thought, from the first day they met on the train.  
  
And he was offering knowledge that Harry hadn’t had before. And he wanted Harry to be normal, which was nice.  
  
But he was still lying. And he still wouldn’t always tell the truth. And he wanted Harry to be normal by _pretending_ , which was a game Harry despised. No matter how much he pretended when he was a child that he was going to wake up tomorrow and be gone from the Dursleys’, he knew it wouldn’t come true.  
  
And no matter how much he pretended to be a hero when he was younger, he never would have done it if he knew what the reality would be like.  
  
So Harry could like him, and listen to him, and learn from him. But he couldn’t trust him, just the same way he couldn’t really trust Snape. Harry wouldn’t trust any adults because they wouldn’t trust him.  
  
 _So it’s the same thing I decided before I came here._  
  
“Thanks,” he said. “Now, what about the Patronus Charm?”   
  
Lupin beamed, and went to fetch the trunk with the boggart in it. Harry drew his wand and began chanting the incantation to himself, ready to cast it the moment the boggart appeared.  
  
And as soon as the lesson was done, he would use the map and find Ron and Hermione. He had a few apologies to make to them, too, and some things to tell them.  
  
*  
  
“I do not quite understand the purpose of this meeting,” Severus said, and kept his voice cold and smooth, the fold of his arms easy and forbidding rather than defensive. Heaven forbid that these… _children_ begin to think that they could corral or work around him. “Mr. Potter, what exactly is it that you desire of Mr. Malfoy?”  
  
Potter was the one who took a step forwards, with Draco following him, almost sheltering in his shadow. Severus did not allow his frown to form, but he was concerned. Draco could not be allowed to spend the rest of his life hiding behind someone else.  
  
“I want him to convince his father to stop Buckbeak’s execution,” Potter said.  
  
“And what is it that you desire of Potter, Draco?” Severus let his voice become softer when he looked at his favorite student. He knew the boy needed help at the moment, not scolding, though Severus would have liked to take him aside privately and question him as to what he hoped to gain.  
  
“Inspiration,” Draco said flatly. “He’s fought monsters before. I need him to teach me how.” His face became a little more child-like, a little more desperate, as he looked at Severus. Severus had to approve. No matter how much the stoic, enduring look might fit Potter, it did not work for Draco. “And I need your help too, Professor. I don’t think I control my emotions very well, though my father’s tried to teach me how. I need you to show me. You’re a good actor. If I can’t fool Lucius—” He swallowed, a nervous little bob of his throat. “I don’t want to think about what will happen.”  
  
“What will he do to you for asking if you can’t fool him?” Potter asked.  
  
 _Yes, do let him know, Draco_ , Severus urged the boy silently as he turned to face Potter. _Let him realize he is not the only one who faces danger, and that he is asking you to take a great risk for small hope of reward._  
  
“For starters,” Draco said flatly, “he’ll abuse other people. I’ve seen him do it with the house-elves now. And I don’t want to see that anymore.” He closed his eyes and shivered. “Then he’ll write me letters. I know that might not seem like much,” he hurried on, though, so far as Severus could see, Potter’s face was intent and listening, and he had made no move to interrupt. “But the letters insult me and cut me apart. No one can hurt you like family.” His voice was inexpressibly bitter.  
  
“Yes,” Potter said quietly, “I know. I know that.”  
  
Severus glanced at him, eyes narrowing. He had not thought about his suspicions concerning the Muggles in some time, but now, seeing the shadows carved like axes into Potter’s face, he wondered if he should have.  
  
“And then he’ll probably do his best to crush any ambition I have out of existence,” Draco finished. “I don’t want that. I want to be free of him. I want to control _him_ for a change. I want to win.”  
  
Only strict self-control kept Severus from tipping his head back and laughing aloud.  
  
 _Yes, Draco! That is the way. Let me ease you out of the poisoned air that Lucius has you breathing. Let me see you use your talent for Potions in new and unexpected ways, instead of putting it aside to do the politics that you have no gift for. Let me see you free. And if I must have Potter’s help to do that, it is a price I am willing to pay._  
  
“Very well,” Severus said, making both boys startle and turn to him. He reckoned they had almost forgotten his presence in their intense communion with one another. “I will help you. But I require something from you in turn.”  
  
Draco nodded, as much to say, “Of course.” Potter tensed and drew himself up as if Severus were a second basilisk he had to face.  
  
“I require _you_ ,” and Severus pointed a finger at Draco, “to study my lessons as hard as you have ever studied Potions. And I require _you_ ,” and when he pointed to Potter, the boy scowled at him, defiant as ever, “to improve your marks in Potions. You have made a beginning. Go further.”  
  
“With you criticizing me all the time and Slytherins interrupting my potions?” Potter demanded.  
  
“Yes,” Severus said, locking eyes with the boy and not looking away, “with all that.”  
  
Potter puffed his cheeks out until Severus thought he might float off the ground with all the air he was holding in. Then he nodded and said, “All right. Let’s get started, then.”  
  
*  
  
Draco lay in bed that night shivering over and over again.  
  
He felt as though he’d been caught in a white-water river and tumbled head over heels, slamming into rocks as he went. He was still cold and shocked, dazzled and awed.  
  
His life had the potential to change. He could be free, he could be powerful in his own right, if he _wanted_ to. He could be more than just Lucius’s son, or the heir to the Malfoy fortune, which his father had tried to teach him was enough.  
  
He could be a respected Potions brewer. He could be an inventor. He could be Professor Snape’s prize student, which he had never known, until he saw the gentleness in Snape’s eyes, that he was.  
  
He could be Harry Potter’s friend.  
  
But in the meantime, he had a price to pay.  
  
He would be a spy in the Malfoy household. No one had asked that of him, but of course he had to do it. If Lucius came up with another plot to hurt Potter or Potter’s friends like the diary, then Draco would have to tell him.  
  
He would be Harry Potter’s friend back, and that would be harder than simply accepting the gifts he was offered passively.   
  
He would be the Dark Lord’s enemy.  
  
Chills swept up and down Draco’s body, but he took a deep breath and managed to remind himself that most of the things he was afraid of were far in the future. He had a smaller goal to deal with before then.  
  
Carefully, he began to go over all the advice about acting, facial expression, and tone of voice that Professor Snape had given him for that evening.  
  
*  
  
Harry couldn’t sleep.   
  
It wasn’t unusual, given his nightmares this summer and the way he needed to keep waking up in the night and checking so that he could be sure the protective charms had held and no one had tried to burn his Firebolt or the map. But he had thought he would sleep better tonight, given the conversation with Ron and Hermione where he’d apologized and all three of them, for once, had talked about Quidditch.  
  
He couldn’t, though, so he sat up, lit his wand, made sure the bed-curtains were drawn so his light wouldn’t disturb the other boys—though it was all Seamus deserved—and looked idly at the map. Snape was still in his office, and Harry snorted inwardly. _Probably trying to create some horrible poison to work on Lupin, this time_. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Lupin was right about one thing: Snape hated him. Harry didn’t think he would ever find out why, of course, because that was one of the things that no one bothered to tell him.  
  
Dumbledore was still in the office, too. Harry watched his dot thoughtfully. He had a fit of longing, sometimes, to go to the Headmaster and ask whether what Remus said was true, and his mother had really wanted to give him to the Dursleys if Black couldn’t look after him. _Why_? Didn’t his mother know what Aunt Petunia was like? Or Harry wanted to ask about his parents and what they had been like.   
  
But something had stopped him all along, and since Professor Lupin had confirmed the truth Snape told him, Harry knew what it was. Dumbledore was involved in putting him at the Dursleys. He knew about the Potters’ will. So he must have known about Sirius Black, too, and the way he’d betrayed Harry’s family.  
  
But he’d never bothered to tell Harry. Harry couldn’t trust him, either, though he would have liked to. Dumbledore was like the grandfather he never had.  
  
 _Sometimes._  
  
Harry leaned back against the pillows and let his gaze wander at will across the map. A surprising number of people were still awake: some Slytherins probably plotting nasty things, Ravenclaws studying, and—  
  
Harry froze. Then he sat up rapidly, breath shaking his lungs, eyes fixed on a dot just outside Gryffindor Tower as he read the name by it again and again.  
  
 _Sirius Black_.  
  
He was pacing outside the entrance to the common room.  
  
And so many emotions rushed and roared through Harry then: the anger at the betrayal of his parents, the wonder when he thought that the Firebolt might have been sent by Sirius Black, the painful longing that had sprung up when Professor Lupin admitted Black would have been his godfather and would have raised him if he hadn’t been insane.  
  
And then he remembered a fact.  
  
The Dark Arts spells Professor Snape had taught him.  
  
Harry didn’t hesitate, because he thought he would decide better if he did, and he didn’t _want_ to decide better. Instead, he cast a spell Malfoy had shown him last year to muffle his footsteps, and then he was racing down silently from the third-year boys’ bedroom, and towards the portrait of the Fat Lady.


	8. Allegations

  
Harry shoved the portrait open, but slowly, so that he wouldn’t alert the crazed murderer standing there and make him run off down the corridor. His own excitement was thick in his blood by now, pounding through his body and making him shake with it. Yes, there was still some fear and some anger, but the main point was that he was doing something about all the stupidity around him, and that hadn’t happened since he confronted the basilisk last year.  
  
 _I bet this is an adventure Malfoy would love to be on_ , he thought, but he didn’t exactly have time or a secret passage to sneak down to the dungeons from here and fetch Malfoy before Black disappeared.  
  
His first sight was encouraging. A man with long dark hair was pacing back and forth, his hands clenched, his head swaying from side to side like an angry bear’s. Now and then he hissed under his breath as if he was complaining to someone who wasn’t there. His face had a haggard look, and his eyes were wild. Harry smiled a little. _Good. He deserves some torment for betraying my parents._  
  
Harry considered him for a moment, until he realized that Black’s pacing was always back and forth in the same small square of space. Harry grinned and prepared a tripwire jinx. It was one of the smaller spells that Snape had had him study, but it would tighten wickedly around someone’s ankle if the caster commanded it to.  
  
And then he couldn’t cast it after all, because Black whirled around and stared at the portrait again—and straight into Harry’s eyes.  
  
Harry nearly lost his grip on the wand. He’d never seen someone look so desperate, and when he saw those eyes widen, with recognizing him, he was sure, he was paralyzed with shock for a moment.  
  
But then Black made a swearing noise in his throat and started forwards.   
  
Harry immediately slipped through the portrait and put his back against it as it shut. He might be hurt himself, but he wouldn’t make it easy for Black to hurt anyone else. And now his wand was in his hand again, and his hand was steady. He even managed to sound threatening when he said, “Don’t come any closer.”  
  
“Harry, Harry, Harry,” whispered Black. One hand twitched as if he would reach out and touch him, but luckily he was smart enough to keep it still.  
  
The words sickened Harry. They sounded like ones a godfather would say bending over a cot. “You killed my parents,” he said. “You helped him kill my parents. And you want to kill me. I’m going to kill you.” His voice wavered on the last words, or it would have sounded more impressive, he thought.  
  
“I didn’t kill your parents,” Black said. “It was Pettigrew. Peter. The _rat_.” He laughed as if he found his joke enormously funny, and Harry tensed further. The laughter was loud. Someone would come and find them if they weren’t careful, and then he wouldn’t get to deal with this situation and his parents’ traitorous best friend by himself.   
  
“Pettigrew’s dead,” Harry said. He aimed his wand carefully at Black’s chest. There was a spell that stopped the heart, too, but the incantation was long. Harry wondered if he would finish it before Black attacked him. He wasn’t ready for nonverbal magic yet, Professor Snape said, but maybe he could whisper it just beneath his breath and it would still count.  
  
“He’s not,” Black said firmly. “He could turn into a rat, and he was the one who betrayed your parents. We switched Secret-Keepers at the last instant. I used to be the Secret-Keeper, but now he is. Was.” He paused for a moment, as if he had lost track of what they were talking about.  
  
 _Well, that’s what happens when you’re insane_ , Harry thought. He began to speak the first syllables of the spell.  
  
“And now he’s _here_ ,” said Black, gesturing so emphatically that Harry jumped and lost the thread of the spell, “hiding in the school. He’s a rat. He’s your friend Weasley’s rat. Scabbers.”  
  
 _Right. Scabbers killed my parents_. Harry braced himself against the portrait and prepared to try the spell again. He couldn’t believe he was being so weak. The Dark Arts were supposed to be tempting, corrupting. Why couldn’t he finish a spell like this on the first try any more than he could finish a complicated charm in Professor Flitwick’s class? Black would kill Harry if Harry didn’t kill him.  
  
“Look,” Black said abruptly, his eyes fixed on Harry and his manner changed again to a cajoling one, “we were all Animagi together, James and Peter and—and Remus and I. I could turn into a dog, and Peter could turn into a rat, and your father could turn into a stag. Watch. I’ll prove it to you.” And then he vanished, and in his place was the large black dog Harry had seen as he was running from Privet Drive after blowing Aunt Marge up.  
  
Harry stared. His mouth had fallen open, and he hated that, but he could feel some faint stirrings of doubt inside him.  
  
The dog turned back into Black, who was keeping his distance from Harry, his hands raised in the air. “I don’t have a wand,” he said. “But I know a spell that forces an Animagus to turn back into their human form. _You_ go get Peter, and _I’ll_ teach you the spell. You could force him to turn back to his human self. That would at least prove I didn’t kill him. And there are potions that can make someone tell the truth, too.” Black’s eyes shone suddenly. “I know you’re friends with someone who can brew them.”  
  
Harry swallowed. His eyes were burning. He would have said that he was about to cry, but he knew he gave up crying a long time ago.   
  
“I should just tell someone you’re here,” he said.  
  
“You could do that.” Black’s face was unreadable now, and he had crossed his arms. But his eyes were darting across Harry as if he wanted to memorize him. “But I don’t think you will. You’re a Gryffindor, Harry.” His grin showed up again suddenly, and Harry thought it was the way his father had smiled in the pictures Hagrid had given him, before Seamus burned them. “Go. Get the rat. The spell has no effect on an animal who’s not an Animagus. I’ll let you use it on me first, so you can see how it works. Go.” His voice lowered, and he whispered. “Go get him. Please.”  
  
Harry nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure why he was trusting an insane murderer, except that he seemed a little less like an insane murderer than Harry had imagined he would. He turned to open the portrait again.   
  
Then he heard a low snarl. He whirled around and lifted his wand, ready to strike if Black had turned back into a dog and was going to hurt him.  
  
Instead, Black had faced alertly down the corridor, sniffing as if he had a dog’s nose in human form, too. Then the shadows parted, and Professor Snape came around the corner at the other end of a lit wand.  
  
His smile was horrible.  
  
“Black,” he said. “I should have known, really.”  
  
He fired off a curse without pausing, but Black had already dodged. Snape coolly adjusted his position and cast again. This time, though, Black had turned into a dog, and he had jumped at the portrait with all his feet out—  
  
And somehow slipped a paw into a tiny crack around the edge that Harry hadn’t even noticed he left. The portrait banged open, and Black slipped inside, his tail a curving slice of darkness before it vanished.  
  
Harry grabbed the portrait and yanked it open, and then he tore inside, Snape right behind him. The professor was cursing, but in a voice so low and cold it sounded inhuman.  
  
It was easy to tell where Black had gone; a series of muddy pawprints led straight across the Gryffindor common room and up the stairs towards Harry’s bedroom. Harry ran faster, ignoring the way Snape shouted for him to wait, and began climbing the stairs himself. His mind was full of Black tearing apart Ron in his haste to get to the rat, or because he really was mad.  
  
“ _Impedimenta_!”  
  
He tripped, and in the next moment, a Body-Bind encircled his arms and pulled them tight to his sides. Harry yelped in frustration as the wand clattered from his hand with the sudden movement, and he pitched over against a chair before he could stop himself.  
  
Snape slid past him. Harry glared at him in betrayal. Snape looked at him calmly for a moment, then shook his head.  
  
“You are still not up to dueling with a mad wizard on your own terms,” he said. “You are to _stay_ here and out of danger, Potter.” And he fled up the stairs with his robes flapping around him like bats’ wings.  
  
Harry wanted to point out that he had dueled a basilisk on _its_ own terms, but he couldn’t move his jaw. So, instead, he set out to get free, concentrating his will grimly to break the bonds, the way Snape had hinted was possible, or to summon his wand to him, the way he’d managed to after blowing up Aunt Marge.  
  
*  
  
Severus knew that he was taking the Gryffindor stairs as if he were mad himself, but within the whirl of his emotions, he was quite calm. He knew what he needed to do.  
  
Capture Black. Take him to Dumbledore. Watch as the Dementors sucked out his soul.  
  
He had to admit, it was the thought of the last that he enjoyed the most.  
  
He burst into the bedroom full of moonlight and shadows and sleeping boys, most of whom only made muffled noises of protest when they heard the noise. And then he realized there were two struggling animals, too, the dog leaping madly over the one empty bed in pursuit of a rat.  
  
“ _Stupefy_!” Severus shouted, and the red beam shot out from his wand.  
  
Not in time, it appeared, because it only struck one post of Potter’s bed and made it wobble in place. Rat and dog disappeared beneath the bed.   
  
Severus wasn’t used to fighting non-human opponents, and Black had always had an astonishing amount of luck. He spent a moment telling himself that because otherwise he would explode in rage, and that was not conducive to bringing Black within range of the Dementors.  
  
A black paw shoved into sight, groping about wildly from beneath the bed as if its owner had dropped something.  
  
Severus aimed at it again, and again missed.  
  
A rat scuttled past his feet, squeaking. The dog followed the same route a moment later, and Severus tripped. He heard Black’s barking, and he _knew_ it had a mocking edge to it.  
  
For a moment, the Tower melted around him, and he was back in the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow where Potter’s father had saved his life, and rage and humiliation and fear burned in him, that they _always_ seemed to win, all of them, and he was nothing but the plaything of their jokes and of fate—  
  
And then he brought himself back to the present with a sharp mental smack in the forehead as he heard a squeal of pain. Whirling around, he saw that, for some reason, a large cat had caught the rat near the door and was playing with it, tossing it from paw to paw. The dog frisked around it, not barking, but letting its tongue hang out of its mouth, panting like an idiot.  
  
Severus had had enough of this nonsense as well as of his magic misfiring. He aimed his wand and silently incanted the spell that would force Black to resume his true form.  
  
A flash like lightning cut the darkness of the bedroom, and resulted in confused, sleepy cries from the brats, as the dog became Black, who looked as idiotic as Severus had expected on all fours with his hair hanging in his face. But, to Severus’s surprise, the rat flying between the cat’s paws was suddenly a small, hunched man with watery eyes and long hair _also_ straggling in his face, as appeared to be the Gryffindor fashion of late.  
  
 _Pettigrew_. Severus would have known him anywhere, just as he had had no trouble recognizing Black and Lupin after all these years.   
  
_He did live._   
  
Severus wasn’t given a chance to work out the riddle. Pettigrew had changed back the next instant and taken a flying leap past the cat, whom he had half-crushed when he resumed his human form. Black tried to follow, and of course Severus Stunned him, as he had been trying to do since he entered the room.  
  
Pettigrew was a cause for concern, doubtless, but Black was the one who had entered the school, stalked Potter, and somehow broken out of Azkaban.  
  
 _I daresay the Ministry will be interested to know how he did that_ , Severus thought idly, as he cast _Expelliarmus_ to summon Black’s wand, in case he had one. _If they give him a chance to answer questions before the Dementors eat his soul, of course._  
  
An exquisite shiver of pure pleasure ran down his back as he contemplated the inevitable outcome of this night’s work.  
  
And, of course, the rage and panic in Black’s eyes.  
  
*  
  
Harry saw his wand come towards him. He had to concentrate for just a moment more, and then he thought he would probably be able to break free.  
  
But then a small rat ran down the stairs and in the direction of the portrait of the Fat Lady, and no dog, or human, followed it.  
  
Harry, his dread increasing, remembered Snape’s face and the way he had looked when he marched up the stairs. He might have killed Black, and that was why he wasn’t following the rat. Never mind that Harry had been about to kill Black when they met before the portrait; he’d changed his mind since and wanted to listen to the man’s story, and if Snape had killed him, then that wasn’t going to be possible.  
  
He exerted a mighty effort, as mighty as he could, fueled by desperation, and the Body-Bind snapped like a string. Harry snatched up his wand and took the steps two at a time.  
  
He burst into a room where Ron, Dean, and Neville were all out of bed and chattering at each other and at Professor Snape about what had happened. Seamus was hanging back, his eyes wide. When he saw Harry looking at him, he sneered, but he also folded his arms and edged away, the way he’d done since the burning incident.  
  
Harry calmed down his instinctive anger and looked at Snape, who had Black lying at his feet. Perhaps Black had been Stupefied at one point, but now he was awake and adding his voice to the general chorus, using some words that Harry didn’t think even Uncle Vernon knew. Snape had his arms folded and was watching the commotion with a look of _peace_ that Harry hated. He could have shut Black up; he could have explained things to Ron, Dean, and Neville. But he didn’t want to.  
  
Harry tapped his throat with his wand and cast _Sonorus_. “Everybody shut up,” he said loudly.  
  
Everyone winced as his voice echoed through the room, and did so. Black looked at him hopefully. The other boys, except Seamus, who continued to huddle in the far corner, stared at Harry. Snape had his eyes half-closed, as if Harry were a strange potion he’d lost the recipe to.  
  
“I have something that will tell us the truth,” Harry said. “Or part of the truth.” He reckoned he really had no way of knowing for certain that Pettigrew was the one who had betrayed his parents, even though he thought he could tell who the rat had really been, unless Black took a truth potion.  
  
Everyone just stared as he walked across the room and picked up the map he had dropped on the bed in his haste to get out the portrait. He looked at the lower floors of the castle.  
  
And there, hurrying towards the front doors, was a dot labeled “Peter Pettigrew.”   
  
Harry took a deep breath and laid the map down on his bed. “All right,” he said, turning around. “So Pettigrew didn’t die when Black blew up the street. He probably blew it up himself, and turned into a rat to hide what he’d done.”  
  
“A rat?” Ron sounded weak.  
  
Harry nodded gently at his friend. “He was Scabbers, Ron. I’m sorry. He’s probably been hiding in your family because he didn’t want Black able to look for him.”  
  
“This is ridiculous,” said Snape, with that tide of coldness that Harry still found it hard to deal with. It shut Ron up and drove whatever he’d been about to say back down his throat. Now, Harry found, Snape’s eyes were fixed, rather coldly, on him, in challenge and what looked a lot like loathing. “Excuses were made for their crimes and pranks in school, but Black is no longer a schoolboy.”  
  
“It’s still true, Snivellus,” Black said, undaunted, amazingly, by Snape’s manner. “I switched as Secret-Keeper with Peter at the very last minute. He took my place, and then he betrayed James and Lily to Voldemort.” Harry liked him better immediately for saying the name. “Why, I don’t know. But I can guess. He was always jealous of us.” _Like someone else_ , his gaze on Snape said.  
  
“Black.” Snape was hissing like a cobra, like the snake Malfoy had summoned with the _Serpensortia_ spell. His hand drifted down to his wand, and Harry found himself stepping in between Snape and Black without even knowing what he was doing.  
  
“We need a truth potion,” said Harry. He looked Black in the eye. “And we need to know _everything_ , not just a few scraps of truth that can’t be denied.”  
  
Black was smiling. “There’s nothing I’d like better.” He paused, and then added in a slightly embarrassed tone, “Well, except being your godfather, Harry.”  
  
Harry swallowed. A pulse of longing traveled through him, and of hope that he’d given up on long ago. Hadn’t he learned yet that every time he thought he had someone just for him, it turned out to be a lie?  
  
But Black was looking at him like that. Like he really wanted to adopt him. Like he’d be able to take Harry home and give him a life for him alone.  
  
 _I hope it’s true_ , Harry thought suddenly, his limbs trembling. _I hope he can really be my godfather, and if he’s not lying to me right now, then maybe he_ won’t _lie to me, and I can have a home._  
  
*  
  
Severus sat in his rooms, and forced himself to simply sit, his hands folded on his lap, his eyes shut and his breathing calm and steady. He had thought about brewing a cup of tea, but the activity would only have churned up his mind and forced his thoughts to move, and the tea the house-elves brewed never tasted the same. So he enforced silence and stillness upon himself, and cleared his mind as he would when practicing Occlumency, and waited.  
  
The clarity that came upon him helped to slot the happenings of the last month neatly into several categories, and already Severus could feel his personal involvement receding, his breath smoothing out, his mind approaching this as a problem in Potions rather than an insult that Black had given him.  
  
The first category was the use of truth potions. The Ministry didn’t like the answers that were coming from Black, which threatened to reveal the fact that he’d never had a proper trial. They continued to insist that each truth potion must be faulty and send for another “expert” from St. Mungo’s or their own Potions department to brew another. Thus, though Black had now been in custody a month and made his confession numerous times, there were few officials who yet believed him.  
  
The second category was the fact that Pettigrew had finally and firmly escaped; searches in the Forbidden Forest and elsewhere by Aurors had failed to turn him up. Of course they had. Severus could have snorted when he heard. How did one use techniques refined for hunting human criminals in order to capture a rat? The Aurors had trouble even with Mudblood criminals who managed to use knowledge of the Muggle world to evade them. Pettigrew in rat form was identical to any ordinary animal, unless one was able to capture him and look closely at his toes. And despite the Head Auror’s truly ridiculous enthusiasm for the plan of Summoning all the rats in the British Isles and comparing their toes, Severus knew his conclusions would remain the truth.  
  
The third category consisted of the way that Dumbledore insisted on keeping Black prisoner _in the school_ , rather than turning him over to the Ministry or sending him back to Azkaban. Severus had protested against that tactic, and not because he feared Black. (He did not fear him; he hated him. But Dumbledore did not seem to understand the difference, perhaps because neither emotion was common to him). He had pointed out the possible danger to the children if Black followed his impulsive nature or Pettigrew returned for revenge, just as he had pointed out the danger if Lupin forgot to take his Wolfsbane Potion one day. But the Headmaster had smiled at him and gone gently, implacably, ahead.  
  
And the fourth category…  
  
He had to pause, then, and chip away at some of the heat overcoming his own mind before he could begin thinking about this last topic rationally.  
  
The fourth category was the way that Potter hung about Black with stars in his eyes and trust on his tongue.  
  
He was absolutely convinced that the mongrel’s story was true, of course. After numerous testings with Veritaserum—one of which had been Severus’s own batch—Severus had to admit he believed the same thing. But there were larger matters to deal with, which, of course, Potter did not see.  
  
For one, Black was no fit guardian for a child. He might, perhaps, treat the boy better than his Muggle family had; Severus had not managed to work any solid facts on that family out of Potter. But that did not mean Black would give him shelter, or structure, or reassurance, or the training that Severus knew he needed to defeat the Dark Lord. He would not teach him the subtleties of morality or the tricks of facing and living with himself that Severus could. Potter would lose the spark of strength and intelligence that Severus had seen in him, having it trampled out by Gryffindor stupidity and “cleverness.”  
  
For a second, Potter believed Black perfect. He did not see how consumed by his own darkness, his mental instability and his time in Azkaban, the man was. He would make excuses, and he would continue to make them until the day that Black failed him, fatally and finally. Perhaps even then he would believe. The man was a connection to his dead parents, which Severus could never be.  
  
 _Unless you revealed…_  
  
Severus snarled, and nearly opened his eyes. _No_. His memories of Lily were private, his own. He did not see a reason to open them up to the hands of the unwashed. And certainly the boy would turn for confirmation to Black, and Lupin, whom he had grown closer to since Black’s capture. Severus would not have them know that, even now, he still thought about her, the woman they would call James’s and say Severus had no claim to.  
  
The truth was simple.  
  
He was losing the boy.  
  
Potter was becoming less than he could have been, more irritating and more forgetful, since Black’s appearance. He had not kept his bargain to improve his marks in Potions. He did not seem even to be continuing his lessons in the Patronus Charm with Lupin. Instead, he spent time listening to Black and Lupin’s stories and practicing obsessively on the broom Black had given him, as if that would somehow protect him.  
  
The other truth was also simple.  
  
Severus did not want to lose the boy.  
  
In the silence of his rooms, in the coldness of his mind, far from anyone who could taunt him, or see into him and guess the truth, Severus faced the hardest thing of all. He had done much for James Potter’s offspring, more than could be excused with talk of debts, what the boy owed him or what he could become and might _feel_ he owed Severus in the future. And he had done it without thinking of it as revenge on James.  
  
Severus sat still, his head bowed, and let his breathing deepen and carry him down a slow spiral, giving him time to adjust to the truth he had discovered.   
  
He wanted to remain a part of the boy’s life now, and he would not be able to do that if Black and Lupin took him over entirely. But he was also unable to think of a tactic at the moment that would let him reinsert himself smoothly back into Potter’s confidence. It was only too evident, from the sharp glances the boy had given him, that he resented the way Severus had Body-Bound him to keep him out of danger the night they confronted Black, and that Black and Lupin had told him stories of their conflicts during their schooldays from _their_ perspective, rather than Severus’s.   
  
So he must remain still, and think.  
  
 _Well, so_ , Severus decided, as he opened his eyes. _It will give me more time to adjust to this truth than I thought I had._   
  
And to stop flinching from the way his insight cut when he turned it on himself.  
  
*  
  
Draco waited impatiently outside the secure room on the fourth floor—as far as possible from any classrooms—that the Headmaster had used to confine Black. Potter was in there, laughing and talking as fast as though he thought Black really was cleared right now and able to adopt him. His words were happy, and friendly, and free, the way he had never talked to Draco.  
  
But Draco had a claim, too, one that he had a right to make.  
  
 _Especially if Potter thinks of himself as a special Gryffindor now that he’s got a Gryffindor godfather. You hold Gryffindors to their word._  
  
He thought, for a moment, of the time he’d waited outside the hospital wing last year in order to hold Potter to his promise about having an adventure with him.  
  
 _And you know how well he kept that one._  
  
Draco curled his lip. He was always having to do this, wasn’t he? Well, this time the adventure was _his_ , and Potter would have to get used to being a sidekick on it. But he _would_ be a sidekick. Draco wouldn’t let him back out any more than Potter would have let the Weasel or the Mudblood back out last year.   
  
The door to the classroom opened, and Draco heard soft murmurs of protest. Then Black laughed—his laughter sounded like a bark, Draco had always thought—and pushed Potter out the door, thank Merlin.   
  
“No, no, Harry, get going now,” Black said, voice filled with affection. “I think you’re getting behind on your Potions homework. Not that I wouldn’t, too, with Snivellus for a teacher.”  
  
 _Is Potter just going to stand there and let him say that_? Draco thought incredulously.  
  
But apparently, yes, it would happen, because Potter laughed in what seemed to be agreement and then stepped out into the corridor. Black shut the door behind him, though not before Draco heard Lupin’s voice ask a mild question. Black responded brusquely, and the rest of it was cut off by the door.  
  
Potter turned around, smiling, and then started when he saw Draco there. The smile slid off his face at once. He took a step back, as if he assumed he’d have to defend his mad godfather and his Defense Against the Dark Arts professor from the horrible, bad, evil Malfoy.  
  
“What do you want?” he demanded.  
  
Anger overcame Draco’s resignation. “The help you promised,” he said in a clipped tone. “Remember? You said that you would be my friend and teach me to face monsters if I persuaded my father to stop the hippogriff’s execution.”  
  
Potter blinked, as if he thought his promises had been made in a dream.  
  
“Instead,” Draco went on, and the anger felt good as it sped through him, crowding aside both the acting lessons Professor Snape had given him and the emotional control his father was always insisting he practice, “you’ve stopped attending the meetings with Professor Snape and me, and you haven’t paid any attention to me in the past month.”  
  
“I didn’t insult you!” Potter said.  
  
“But you didn’t _help_ me,” Draco insisted. “And my father informed me today that some of the appeals for the hippogriff have been pushed aside. We have a month at best for me to convince him I really don’t want to see the beast die.”  
  
Potter folded his arms and looked stubborn.  
  
Draco paused, then drove the nail in. “Unless, of course, you don’t really _want_ to see this addressed,” he murmured. “Unless you’re content for the hippogriff to die, as long as your precious godfather can live.”  
  
*  
  
Harry looked away.  
  
He wanted to not feel guilty. He and Sirius had been talking about feeling guilty, about how you often felt that way about something that wasn’t your fault, and slowly Sirius was leading him to stop feeling guilty that he’d assumed things about Remus too soon, and that he’d tried to attack Sirius when he first showed up.  
  
But maybe you did actually have to feel guilty about breaking a promise and not doing what you’d said you’d do.  
  
Harry did care about Buckbeak, but he hadn’t thought of him in weeks. There was Sirius to get to know, and stories about his parents to hear, and Remus’s lycanthropy to explain. Harry had been a little shocked about that at first, but at least he understood why Snape disliked the two of them so much. And it was wonderful to finally hear the full story about his Dad saving Snape’s life.  
  
 _But Sirius isn’t the only person in my life._  
  
And, sneaking another look at Malfoy’s dissatisfied face, Harry got a dim glimpse of something. It was like the time last year when he’d wanted to use that potion on Seamus and then decided against it, but this time he understood it a little more clearly. He had Slytherin thoughts, and Gryffindor ones. And he couldn’t abandon one side of himself because he didn’t like it.  
  
Maybe, if he had just stopped associating with Snape and Malfoy at the beginning of the year like he’d wanted to, then he could have just Gryffindor thoughts. But he went to Snape for help, and he enjoyed Malfoy’s friendship, a little, and he didn’t see any other way that he was going to save Buckbeak.  
  
And hearing what Malfoy’s father was like…  
  
Harry loved the Weasleys, but he didn’t think Ron could ever understand the Dursleys. In Ron’s world, families loved each other. That was just what they did. And it seemed the case in Hermione’s world, too, though she didn’t talk about her parents much. So Harry was living in another world, and Malfoy was the first person he’d ever known who could join him there.  
  
And Harry had given up Malfoy because Sirius was new.  
  
 _I’m always going to be pulled between Gryffindor and Slytherin, I think. It’s not going to stop. I’ll just have to get used to being both._  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.  
  
Malfoy looked at him with remote eyes, his nostrils quivering as if he were still upset, but Harry could see that he’d surprised him a little. He’d probably expected some big defensive shout. “What?” he demanded.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Harry repeated. “It was wrong of me to ignore you like that and not even talk to you.” He opened his mouth to explain why he had, that Sirius was the first person he’d ever known who wanted to adopt him, but then shut it again. Malfoy would only think of that as defensiveness.  
  
 _And besides, it’s private_. Harry was trying not to show too much enthusiasm even around Sirius, or at least only enthusiasm that would lead Sirius to think about their future together and not about Harry’s past. The Dursleys were _his_. He was _not_ going to talk about them. That would be weak.  
  
“That’s not enough,” Malfoy said. “It doesn’t make up for neglecting us all these weeks.”  
  
“I know,” Harry whispered. “But will you give me a chance to make it up?”  
  
Slowly, Malfoy inclined his head. It was a grudging nod, but it was there, and Harry thought a bit of the cool scorn had gone out of his face.  
  
 _A bit._   
  
“If you come with me to Professor Snape’s office right now,” Malfoy said, “and prove that you mean what you say.”  
  
Harry fell in behind Malfoy without a word of complaint. He didn’t talk about anything else, either. He needed the silence to think about being both Gryffindor and Slytherin, and how he was going to manage that when Sirius and Snape hated each other.  
  
He _was_ pleased to note that Malfoy kept turning around on the way there to stare at him, as if Harry was a weird Potions ingredient that hadn’t reacted the way he expected it to with something else explosive.  
  
*  
  
Severus was—  
  
One could not call him happy, he thought as he watched Draco’s face intently with most of his gaze, trying to guess what the boy was thinking, whilst he watched Potter with the corner of his eyes. He had experienced that emotion when Lily was alive, and not since. He would not debase it by comparing this state of mind with that one.  
  
But he was content.  
  
Draco had solved the problem the way he had last year, but this time, Severus thought the solution more likely to be permanent. Summer would be coming up in a few months, but in the meantime, Potter was theirs. And he was listening attentively to what Draco said about his father when he would say anything at all, and when Potter could, he offered advice.  
  
Severus had counseled Draco, in private, to reject some of that advice. Potter was too fixated on avoiding weakness and showing stoicism. He did not appear to realize that Lucius would _expect_ some weakness from his son, because he had trained Draco to be submissive to him if not to anyone else; too much strength would only cause him to wonder what Draco had been thinking, or studying.   
  
Potter had less nuanced ways of dealing with his problems, still, but he was drifting back to Draco and Severus, spending time with them, and learning, it seemed, to trust Draco if he would not completely trust Severus as yet. He was not entirely lost to them.  
  
And when Severus insisted on teaching him Dark Arts and potions, then Potter would listen with good grace. There were some spells he still turned up his nose at, but Severus pressed him on those and forced him to argue his _reasons_ for not using them. Each time, Potter would stumble, or else he would say something new and surprising.  
  
Slowly, the new and surprising things were replacing the wordlessness. Severus thought that anything which kept Potter from retreating into that unnerving, apathetic silence was a good thing.  
  
And Potter would never be great at Potions, the way Draco was, but he had a good memory when he wished to exercise it. He had reacted the way he had in class, Severus thought, because he had decided that he would get scolded no matter what he did there, so why try?  
  
His attention returned to Draco as he realized that Draco had just claimed, in an extremely bland and cool voice, that Vincent and Gregory had gone for a midnight snack by themselves last night and not lost their way coming back to the Slytherin common room—and Severus could not tell if he was lying or not.  
  
“Draco,” he said.  
  
Draco’s head came up, and his lip quivered a bit, but he kept looking at Severus. He seemed more determined to persevere through discouragement than Potter, because he allowed himself to fail more.  
  
“Did that happen?”  
  
Draco’s face broke into an instant small, sly smile, which revealed his pleasure at Severus’s lack of certainty, but did not actually tell Severus the answer, the way a wide grin would have. He waited, his arms half-folded, and then Draco shook his head.  
  
“Vince and Greg can’t manage without me, yet,” he said.  
  
“You will be telling your father a lie much bigger than this one,” Severus murmured in warning.  
  
Draco looked at him without flinching. “But you’ve always said mastery of the small things must come first, sir.”  
  
Severus inclined his head in a long, slow nod, which he knew Draco would understand even though Potter was looking at him blankly. _This_ was what he preferred: for his students to dig the compliments he intended to give them out of his words, rather than force him to give them directly. It had to happen with Potter, but then, though Potter was closer to Severus in reactions than he might have expected, Draco would ever be closer in soul.  
  
Now Draco stepped aside, and Severus turned to Potter, drawing his wand as he did so. “We will duel,” he said. “You will name the spell as I cast it. For every one you mistake, you will be forced to name a potions ingredient that reacts with asphodel.”  
  
Potter grimaced, but he still drew his wand and waited with tense alertness.  
  
 _Yes_ , Severus thought as he brought his wand around and down in the Slashing Curse, _I am content._


	9. Courage

  
“Draco.” A perfect raising of his right eyebrow, and Lucius turned more fully to face him. “You had something you wished to say to me? It must be important, for you to call me to Hogwarts in the middle of a school day.”  
  
Draco did his best not to swallow, but kept walking, with his eyes fixed on his father’s. They were on the Quidditch Pitch at the moment, which for some reason Lucius appeared to think the most private place in Hogwarts. Draco reckoned it _was_ harder to overhear something in the open air, unless you were using Disillusionment Charms. But a warded room in the dungeons would have been better. Professor Snape had offered one to his father. That would have been the ideal solution, because then Snape would have listened in.  
  
But Draco knew that Potter and Professor Snape weren’t far away, and they would rescue him if something went badly wrong. Except that they couldn’t rescue him forever; he would have to go home sometime, and then Lucius might do worse than make cutting remarks. But Potter had insisted so strongly, and Professor Snape had agreed with him. Draco didn’t like to tell them their precautions were useless unless he could convince Lucius.  
  
 _Well, you always knew that was true._  
  
Draco lifted his head higher and said in the bored voice Professor Snape had made him spend an entire evening practicing, “It has come to my attention that I was wrong.”  
  
Lucius looked at him, a snake-quick turn of his head. Draco held his breath. His father was startled. Maybe that was a good thing, but Draco didn’t think so. Father hated being surprised, so he would be hostile now.  
  
 _But you’ve got no choice but to go forwards, as always._  
  
“About what, Draco?” Lucius swayed his cane in front of him, touching one clump of wet grass and then another. They were walking through the rain, though a careful spell shielded them from the worst effects. “About calling me here? Then you have cost me time and money I will not easily forgive.”  
  
Draco held back his automatic reaction, his face rigid. Another thing Professor Snape had spent time teaching him was to _really_ control his emotions, and stop submitting to the onslaught of anger or fear. And he had just learned how well he was trained to react to the announcement that Lucius’s time was being wasted.  
  
 _This isn’t about that_ , he reminded himself, and sighed as if annoyance was his only emotion. “No,” he said. “I was wrong in my initial reaction to the hippogriff who injured me.”  
  
“You were?” Lucius tilted his head at him, and his eyes were a little softer this time. “In what way? It seems to me that you handled the situation well, my son, in leaving it up to me, since I have the power to redress the injury, as you do not.”  
  
“I spent too much time whinging about it,” Draco said, and this time had to hold back the temptation to excuse himself, to stop speaking, to sound normal and like the person he was with Potter and Snape. That person would never say he was whinging about the injury, and he wasn’t, really. That bite had _hurt._  
  
But this was the lie Snape had decided on, and Draco trusted the professor in the way that he didn’t trust himself. So he continued on, whilst Lucius’s eyes seemed to widen a little more with each word. If he hadn’t been terrified, or close to it, Draco knew he would have thought that was really funny.  
  
“I complained about it after the pain stopped. Pansy Parkinson actually tried to comfort me because she thought I was in such pain.” Lucius’s face twisted a little, and Draco cheered inwardly. His father had to put up with Mr. Parkinson, Pansy’s father, in business, but Draco knew he detested him and didn’t really want Draco to marry Pansy, the way she was always saying she would. “I complained about it for petty reasons. I betrayed Malfoy dignity. I didn’t control my own embarrassment, which I should have done to ensure that other people forgot about my humiliation.” Draco clasped his hands behind him and craned his head back until his neck ached. “I acted like a child, Father, at the time when I should be beyond such things. It was unpardonable, but nevertheless I ask that pardon.”  
  
Lucius spent some more time swishing his cane through the grass. Draco watched. He wanted to run away or faint. He didn’t want to stand here and wait for the results of these words. He was sure Lucius knew something was off, that he would never agree to Draco’s plan, that he would say that being childish was _worse_ and he would punish Draco for it—  
  
“So,” Lucius said abruptly, “you want the execution canceled?”  
  
Draco nodded quickly three times, then made himself stop when he saw his father’s lip curl. He knew Lucius’s thoughts as if he were speaking them now, because he’d heard Lucius say them to his mother before. _The child looks like a toy when he displays too much enthusiasm._ “Yes, Father,” he said, and now he was striving for dignity, trying to sound like Professor Snape when he stood in front of a reluctant Slytherin and explained the glories of Potions or House pride or winning the Quidditch Cup. “I believe killing the beast would let them see we put too much store on the insult offered.” Those phrases were Snape’s. They still sounded unnatural to Draco, but he had practiced them until they were just a few more lines. “On the other hand, forgoing the execution makes our enemies wonder what _other_ penalty we might claim, what less obvious revenge. I feel it would be more in accordance with the grand traditions of our family if we took a step back and appeared to wash our hands clean of blood. Let us wash them with Galleons, instead.”  
  
Those were Professor Snape’s words, too, and he’d made Draco practice them over and over until he knew the inflections as well as the words. But Lucius had stopped walking altogether and was staring at him, and Draco had to look back with his lips trembling and his pulse beating faster and faster in his throat. Lucius wasn’t going to fall for it, he _knew_ Lucius wasn’t going to fall for it. It was—  
  
“Draco,” Lucius said, and his voice was soft and simple. He stepped forwards and put a hand on Draco’s shoulder. Draco blinked. He couldn’t remember the last time Lucius had done that. It made him feel adult, equal to his father, or at least to one of his business partners. He didn’t look away from Lucius’s eyes, though, because something like this had happened before, he’d been happy, and then Lucius had reversed things.   
  
“Draco,” Lucius said again. “You are my son. You will be a fine man. And you are not acting like a child in asking this of me, whatever your behavior may have been in the autumn.” He smiled and touched Draco’s hair, not to ruffle it, because he never did that, but as if he couldn’t believe that Draco was still so small. “Yes, what you say makes sense, and I would have seen that angle on the situation if I had bothered to look. I will cancel the execution and inform Minister Fudge that my support for the case is dropped.”  
  
There were a few more words after that, but they weren’t as important. Lucius was only discussing the Malfoy fortune and details of business that Draco had heard before and which didn’t interest him. He could reply without hiding any emotion but boredom.  
  
 _I got through it. I’m alive._  
  
Yes, he was. Yes, Lucius hadn’t hurt him after all.  
  
But Draco thought of something else as he watched his father’s eyes shine at him, and heard the more difficult way he was talking.  
  
Lucius loved someone who didn’t exist. He wanted his son to be more like Professor Snape and less like Draco.  
  
So the coil of resentment in his belly tightened one more twist.  
  
*  
  
Harry swallowed and sat back against the tree he’d been hiding behind as he watched the two Malfoys. He was overwhelmed.  
  
Maybe Professor Snape and Malfoy’s father were both blind to the way Malfoy tensed up when his father was staring at him, but Harry wasn’t. He’d seen the same thing, over and over again. Done the same thing.  
  
When the Dursleys looked at him. When he was a kid and still wanted their approval, or thought they’d love him if he just tried his hardest not to be a freak. He’d always been disappointed, but he remembered the awful _waiting_ right now more than the disappointment.  
  
And just because someone believed you once and gave you a chance didn’t mean they would always. Harry knew _that_ , too. Right now, Sirius was the only adult who had believed him all the time. Professor Snape didn’t believe that Harry was trying his hardest in Potions and still getting failing marks; Remus didn’t believe Harry was an adult enough to hear all of the truth.  
  
But they had helped him, too.  
  
Harry’s head hurt. It was all too complicated, and not what he wanted to think about right now. He went back to thinking about Malfoy.   
  
He had looked at his father the way that Harry looked at the Dursleys.  
  
But he had done something about it anyway.  
  
And that was brave, and Harry had heard Slytherins couldn’t be brave, mostly from Sirius. Remus maybe didn’t agree, but he sat by and smiled and didn’t say anything one way or the other a _lot_ of the time. Ron and Hermione still didn’t really know he was friends with Malfoy, so they couldn’t say anything about it. And Harry knew that he didn’t trust Professor Snape’s opinion about most things.  
  
So that left him to decide for himself if Malfoy was brave.   
  
And Harry had to think that yeah, he was, and that he was even braver, in a way, to stand there talking with his father when he was so scared.  
  
 _Someone can be brave and a Slytherin._  
  
Harry leaned back against the tree, under the comfort of the Disillusionment Charm he’d cast on himself, and thought.  
  
*  
  
Severus could not deny that he was…more content than he had been in some time.  
  
Draco had faced his father and spoken the first defiant words that he had ever spoken. Of course, Lucius had not recognized them as such, but little would have been gained if he had. This was not about confronting evil or some such Gryffindor form of the notion. Draco was following the finest traditions that Severus had encountered and tried to inculcate in his Slytherins of confrontation that would leave the enemy smugly certain of his own power, and the confronter able to continue working without interference.  
  
But of course Draco could not see it exactly that way. _He_ knew he had faced down someone he was terrified of and survived. And he had done it by fooling him.  
  
Severus could already see the effect on him, the way that Draco ordered around Vincent and Gregory with a bit more confidence, the way that he often spoke up now to ask his own questions when Severus was teaching Potter the Dark Arts or to offer his own knowledge about Potions unasked. He was not afraid of his behavior being reported back to his father, or not as afraid. He was not afraid of a scolding from Severus, or that Potter would abandon him because they occasionally got into arguments.   
  
He was losing the conviction of Lucius’s intelligence, or even omniscience, that had made him so reluctant to oppose his father for so long. He was becoming his own person.  
  
Potter was a different story, a different puzzle. He had not tried to withdraw from Draco after the hippogriff was saved, which made Severus think that perhaps the boy could be taught by experience as well as by Draco’s and Severus’s efforts. But he no longer spoke as much as he had, even to voice complaints about the training process. He had retreated into a brooding silence rather like the one he had used after Finnigan burned his possessions, except flavored with some occasional touch of emotion.  
  
It could be that he was thinking about the perspective that Draco’s confrontation of his father offered him, but Severus grew uncertain when he had no access to Potter’s thoughts, because the _processes_ of those thoughts was so different from his own. He wanted to know what they were so that he might counteract them as necessary.  
  
Potter did not speak them, and gave few clues as to what they could be, except that he increased the amount of time he spent alone as well as the amount of time he spent with Severus and Draco, and the mutt, the werewolf, and his friends. He had found more time in the day, somewhere. Severus did not know where.  
  
He was beginning to wonder, as he watched Potter in class and racing along on his new broom above the Quidditch Pitch and at meals in the Great Hall, how much of the real boy was out of sight, churning and bubbling away under the surface. Could he understand and possibly prevent the boy’s suicidal stunts if he could gain access to that current?  
  
Of course, his motives were not unselfish. He knew that increasing his knowledge of Potter’s thoughts would increase his contentment. And yet, they remained beyond his reach.  
  
He was considering this one night at dinner in the Great Hall, very near the end of term, when an owl swooped in through the windows and offered a sealed letter to Dumbledore. Dumbledore read it with a frown, and stood, making one of those almost unnoticed exits he was so good at. Severus waited a few moments, so as not to be obvious, before he stood and followed.  
  
He had seen the Ministry’s official seal on the letter.  
  
*  
  
Harry was laughing at a conversation between Ron and Hermione concerning the amount of potatoes it was “permissible to stuff into one’s mouth at once”—Hermione’s words—when an awful chill swept over him. He shook his head, hoping that it would fade, but it kept creeping up his back and his side and his hands.  
  
He shivered and looked around. The first thing he noticed was that the Headmaster and Snape were both missing from the High Table, but there could be a lot of reasons for that. And besides, the other teachers were still there, and no one else seemed to notice anything wrong.  
  
But the chill went on getting worse.  
  
And then Harry heard a distant shriek and saw a distant flash of green light, and he was on his feet in a moment and pelting out of the Hall, because he knew what that meant and he knew, he _knew_ what was going on.   
  
The Dementors were coming for Sirius.  
  
And they were. A crowd of black hooded shapes was flowing through the front doors and circling like ghosts towards the stairs that led up to the classroom where Sirius had spent the majority of his time for the last few months, except when Remus managed to sneak him out to the Forbidden Forest to run on full moon nights.  
  
Harry screamed. He didn’t care who heard him; he just needed to scream out all the rage and frustration for a moment. Then he drew his wand and ran up the stairs, running so fast that it felt like flying, his feet tripping and stumbling but his body still propelling itself forwards, because it _had_ to.  
  
They would kill Sirius. They would take him away. But Harry couldn’t let that happen, and he had to stop it.  
  
There was no one else around—again. He was all alone. And he would have to save Sirius alone.  
  
That was just the way it was.  
  
*  
  
Draco stood up, and when Vince looked up and asked if he could finish his food, Draco just nodded and then sped out of the Great Hall without looking back.   
  
He’d seen Potter leave the Gryffindor table. He’d seen his friends blink and look after him, but apparently decide that he was just going to vomit and turn back to their meals. And when Draco looked up, he’d seen the Headmaster and Snape were both gone.  
  
And the Headmaster and Potter and Snape were the ones who knew about the Chamber of Secrets last year and the monster there. They’d even had a meeting that Draco hadn’t been part of. Professor Snape had told him a little about it later, but that wasn’t the same as being there.  
  
This time, Draco wasn’t going to be left out of the adventure.  
  
He heard Potter scream, and then the sound of flapping robes and thumping feet. He shuddered as he came out into the middle of the entrance hall and saw the Dementors, but he didn’t have a fainting problem around them the way Potter did, and he could see well enough that they weren’t looking at him. They were looking up the stairs. They wanted someone else.  
  
 _Potter’s godfather._  
  
Draco was sure of his identification the instant he made it, and, from the way Potter was running, so was he. Draco drew his wand and pounded up the stairs, too. The Dementors were rising through the air beside them—of course they didn’t have to take the steps—ignoring Potter and Draco completely.  
  
Draco put on a burst of speed that made his ribs ache and his breath come so fast that he grew dizzy, and caught up with Potter. He seized his arm—and nearly got an elbow in the face for his trouble. He had to duck, and in the meantime Potter had recognized him and was screaming at him like a maniac, so that had to be dealt with, too.  
  
“Go _back_ , Malfoy! I don’t have the bloody time to protect you, too!”  
  
“I like that!” Draco said. “You don’t have to _protect_ me. I can cast Dark spells you never even heard of, and—”  
  
“There’s only one defense against Dementors!” Potter ripped a hand through his hair in a way that made the hair stand up like the feathers of a demented Fwooper. “The Patronus Charm. Do you know it?”  
  
Draco had to shake his head. He knew that Potter had been practicing that charm with Lupin and Black, and once or twice Draco had asked him about it, but he’d never had the intense lessons that seemed necessary.  
  
“Then you can’t help, and you need to stay out of the way—”   
  
A shriek came from up the stairs. It could have been anyone, but from the way Potter jerked taut as if someone had pulled on the string that ran through his heart, Draco knew he thought it was Black. The next moment, he was shooting away again, running at a speed that Draco thought would make his heart break.  
  
Draco was right behind him, again. He didn’t care how dangerous this was—  
  
 _All right, so I do care_ , he thought, as he caught a glimpse of a Dementor ahead of him and his heart went crazy.  
  
—he cared about the adventure, and this time Potter was _not_ leaving him behind.  
  
*  
  
Severus couldn’t think that Dumbledore didn’t know he followed. The Headmaster knew everything, including the secrets that men braver than Severus had died to keep.  
  
But he didn’t look up as he passed out of the Great Hall and into a secret tunnel that opened in the wall at a tap of the wand. Severus waited a moment for it to close before he opened it again. And then he cast several spells of his own devising to muffle his footsteps, his breathing, and even his scent (the hard legacy of being a werewolf’s enemy). This was the one chance he had to follow the Headmaster undetected.   
  
And he was certain he had to, though not why.  
  
The tunnel led to Dumbledore’s office, of course. He had many ways to reach it unseen, legacy of a paranoid Headmaster of the past besieged by his own students. He stepped out into the main room and shut the door of the tunnel behind him. Severus voiced a quiet incantation that would allow him to open a peephole through the stone—that spell was not one that anyone alive but he and Lucius knew—and pressed an eye to it.  
  
Fudge was waiting for Dumbledore. Dumbledore himself showed no surprise, which made Severus wonder again what the letter had contained. Instead, the Headmaster took his place behind the desk and looked at the Minister as if he were the one who had to bear unwelcome news and Fudge the recipient.  
  
“Albus,” the Minister began, and then stumbled to a stop. It took him a long moment of hand-wringing before he could continue. “The Wizengamot has decided. Black is simply too dangerous to leave alive. Even if he didn’t betray the Potters or kill those Muggles, you do know that he attempted to kill Pettigrew instead of capture him, and he’s threatened several of my people who’ve come to talk to him.”  
  
“Playful threats, I understood,” said Dumbledore, folding his hands on the desk. “Joking ones.”  
  
 _You would do anything to excuse one of your pet favorites_ , Severus thought bitterly. _You did it when Black threatened my life, and you do it now when it could cause you to sound as if you agree with Fudge in any way._  
  
“Nevertheless.” Fudge cleared his throat nervously. “He’s still a potential murderer, and insane from his years in Azkaban.”  
  
“Whose fault was that?” Dumbledore asked, mildly, but the “mildness” of the tone was something that Severus had felt against his own skin like a scalpel before.  
  
“But he can’t go back to Azkaban.” Fudge was babbling now. “He’s already broken free now. So the Dementors are on the way to Kiss him. It’s the only way. I’m sorry, Dumbledore, but what could _I_ do to stop them? They—”  
  
Severus stopped listening to the Minister then, because he had no interest in weak people making excuses for their weakness. What he was most interested in was Dumbledore’s reaction. And though the Headmaster sat behind his desk with his head bowed, perhaps to conceal the anger on his face, the point was:  
  
 _He sat behind his desk with his head bowed._  
  
He made no attempt to interrupt the Minister, or condemn him, or to move to stop the execution. He remained still.  
  
And that forced Severus to a decision he would have laughed at himself as mad for considering two days ago.  
  
 _Who knows_ , he thought, as he turned and slipped rapidly up the tunnel in the direction of another that would take him to the fourth floor and the classroom where Black was held. _Perhaps I have grown into the habit of stopping executions.  
  
And earning the gratitude of Potters._  
  
*  
  
Harry came around the top of the stairs and saw the Dementors pouring into Sirius’s room. He heard the shrieks and screams and cast spells coming from the room, but in his mind there was that first scream, ringing on and on, and not shutting up.  
  
He charged forwards, shoving past Dementors who didn’t pay him any attention; they were still focused on the classroom. Harry did his best not to pay any attention to the flashes of vision and despair that struck him as he brushed past individual Dementors, either.  
  
Sirius, he saw when he finally burst into the open, was backed up against a wall, his eyelids fluttering and his fingers moving in the air as if he used to have a wand but someone had taken it away. _And they did_ , Harry thought, bitterly, frantically. He looked around for Remus and saw him trying to cast the Patronus Charm, muttering the words under his breath again and again, but there were too many Dementors and he was overwhelmed.  
  
So it was up to Harry.  
  
Well, he _knew_ that.  
  
He raised his wand and turned to face the nearest Dementor. He caught a glimpse of a yawning mouth and swayed on his feet, but he reminded himself that Sirius was the first person who ever offered Harry a home, the first adult he ever trusted, and he raised his wand higher.  
  
“ _Expecto Patronum_!” he shouted.  
  
But nothing happened, other than a faint silver light at the end of his wand. Oh, and a few of the Dementors turned towards him, and the flashes of green light and the screams overwhelming him grew worse and worse.  
  
And then Harry remembered that he hadn’t actually produced a full Patronus, not really. He had a ghost stag that galloped around the room, and Sirius had ruffled his hair and told him about his father being a stag Animagus, but that wasn’t the same thing as a Patronus that could drive off fifty Dementors.  
  
Or a hundred. Harry had lost count, but he knew that more than a hundred were guarding the school, and it seemed like every one in Hogwarts was swarming through the door now.  
  
 _You’re going to fail_ , said Uncle Vernon’s voice in his head. _Just like you’ve failed in everything else, you nasty little freak._  
  
“No!” Harry shouted, but his throat was dry. And the Dementors went on closing in, and still Remus couldn’t summon a Patronus, and he couldn’t do anything, and Sirius was moaning with fear and pain and despair.  
  
Then _Malfoy_ screamed.   
  
And Harry thought about what a _waste_ it would be, if the way Malfoy had faced his father and was learning to listen to Harry and was brave died because Harry couldn’t summon up the Gryffindor courage to fight.  
  
Rage swept away the weakness, and Harry focused on the image of Malfoy in front of his father, eyes bright, body shaking, because he couldn’t know what was going to happen and he was scared of his father and _he did it anyway.  
  
“EXPECTO PATRONUM_!”  
  
*  
  
Draco screamed out of frustration and rage, because he couldn’t get through the Dementors into the room, and he didn’t know the spell that would scatter them, and they were probably going to kill Potter and _then_ who would be his friend and have adventures with him?  
  
And maybe he screamed, too, because he knew that Potter would hear him and know he was in trouble, and Potter needed someone to be a hero for. He told that to Professor Snape later, and the Professor said it was ridiculous, because Potter had his godfather to be a hero for.  
  
But Draco screamed anyway, and that was when the silver stag charged.  
  
It was the most beautiful thing Draco had ever seen, except maybe the way Potter sometimes flew in Quidditch games. It blazed like a comet as it cut through the Dementors. Suddenly Draco could breathe again. He stared in awe as the stag whirled around, stamping its hooves, and lowered its antlers. The Dementors in front of the classroom immediately fled down the stairs, towards the entrance. The stag charged after them.   
  
But there were other Dementors crowding in still, and suddenly they seemed to be focusing on Draco; they were no longer just interested in Black. Draco clutched his wand, swallowed, and tried to remember the incantation for the spell.  
  
“ _Expecto Patronum_!” said a strong voice from down the corridor.  
  
Then there was a silver doe running through the walls and the floor and coming down from the ceiling, it seemed that she was charging from so many directions at once, and the rest of the Dementors scattered. And Draco leaned back against the wall to get out of the way as the silver stag whirled up the stairs and joined the doe, running back and forth in the middle of the corridor until it was clear. Then they faced each other and bowed, the stag’s antlers to the doe’s bare head and soft ears, and slowly melted away.  
  
When Draco could look at something else, he saw Potter standing in the entrance to the classroom, eyes huge and a really complex expression on his face.  
  
And coming briskly towards them was Professor Snape.  
  
*  
  
Severus strode towards his students, one of whom was pressed against the wall as if he didn’t dare to move, the other of whom was looking at him with an expression that Severus hoped was the first entrance into his silent, brooding thoughts. If it was not, then Potter had bigger problems than Severus had thought he had.  
  
He halted between Potter and Draco and looked at them both. Draco gazed up at him with the beginnings of hero-worship in his eyes. Severus resolved to remember it. Hero-worship could be a weakness, yes, but when the people one admired were useful and intelligent rather than simply adored, one could learn a great deal.  
  
Potter stared at him, and the expression in his eyes was closer to Lily’s than Severus had ever seen it. His heart clenched painfully, and he forced the memory away. At the moment, this was not about Lily, no matter how much Severus wished she could still be alive, no matter that he carried the legacy of how she mattered to him in his Patronus. Her own Patronus had been a doe, and his had altered to match.  
  
This was about her son.  
  
“You cast that second Patronus.” Potter’s voice was strangely subdued. After a moment, Severus realized this was the first time he had heard it without arrogance or defensiveness or anger of any kind.  
  
“Yes,” Severus said. “I did.” Until he knew more about the boy’s emotional state, it was best to stay with simple words.  
  
“You saved Sirius and me and Draco,” Potter said, not seeming to notice what happened to Draco’s face when he heard his first name from Potter’s lips. Potter drew a deep, noisy breath. “Thank you.”  
  
“You are welcome.” Severus waited, his arms folded, for the revelation that it seemed Potter was nerving himself up to make. Potter’s breathing was faster and faster, his hands clenched into fists as if he wanted to hit or kill. Perhaps he might even need to do both, before the end.  
  
And then, of course, Black shattered the moment that Severus would have given much to keep, as he had made every effort to shatter Severus’s and Lily’s privacy when they were students.  
  
“Harry, don’t thank him. You wouldn’t if you knew what kind of person he really was.”   
  
Black moved up to stand behind Potter, glaring at Severus. It sometimes tired Severus to think that Black wore that expression and only that expression. He was sure his own face varied more when he looked at Black or the werewolf.   
  
“But he saved our lives,” said Potter, and Severus’s anger altered. Black would have done well to pay attention to the complex, broken tones under Potter’s voice. “And that makes him a good person.”  
  
“Harry, no! He was a Death Eater, one of Voldemort’s followers.”  
  
Potter closed his eyes. Draco made a shocked little sound, though Severus was reasonably certain that he would have suspected that already; hearing Lucius speak about Severus in some contexts made it the only possible reality. Severus waited, not moving a muscle in his body, for the moment when Potter would repudiate him. Of course it would happen now. That was not a surprise.  
  
It surprised him only how much it hurt him.  
  
“Like everyone thought you were?” Potter asked.  
  
“Yes.” Black knelt down beside Potter and put his arms around him. The sight sent a bolt of something dark and bitter through Severus, as if he had drunk tea without milk. He did not know why. “But he was really a Death Eater. He killed and tortured people, and he hurt us when we were in school together.”  
  
Potter swallowed. “But you pranked him, too. You told me about that.”  
  
Black laughed. “But that was only getting him back!”  
  
Potter faced Black and squared his shoulders. Severus had only a moment to figure out what that stance reminded him of.   
  
Lily, placing herself between Severus and Black in the days when she still considered Potter beneath her notice, in the days before he lost her.   
  
“You said my dad saved his life,” Potter said. “You said that it was part of a prank on Snape. But you didn’t really explain. Did you try to _kill_ him, Sirius?” His voice shook, and he raised a hand as if he would reach out and touch Black, then drew it back again. “You sent him down the tunnel to Remus when he was in werewolf form—I didn’t think about it—you were trying to kill him, weren’t you? And my dad thought better of it and saved his life. But you were the one who told him about Remus and the way to reach him. You said that.”  
  
There was a little silence—or perhaps it was little for Potter and Black. For Severus, it was wide and deep and filled with shifting emotions like icebergs in an arctic ocean.  
  
“I didn’t mean to try and kill him, Harry,” Black said. He sounded uncomfortable, but also angry, as if he didn’t really know why he was uncomfortable. “I only wanted Remus to hurt him a bit.”  
  
“But he would either have killed him or turned him into a werewolf,” Harry said. “Remus told me how dangerous lycanthropy is. That’s why you won’t let me come with you when you run in the Forest.”  
  
Severus’s inner silence leaped apart as if someone had tossed a boulder into the arctic ocean. _Potter might have gone with them and been hurt. No. I will not allow that to happen._  
  
“He deserved it,” Black said. He looked bored, now, which Severus knew was his defense against things he didn’t want to consider.  
  
“He was in sixth year.” Potter’s voice rose slightly. “I don’t think he was a Death Eater yet. Was he?”  
  
“He practiced illegal magic—”  
  
“So were you. You were Animagi, and no one knew. You didn’t register.” Potter put his hands over his face, but he kept speaking like someone who was much older and didn’t have the luxury of being able to retreat into silence, not like someone who was about to cry at any moment. “I love you, Sirius, but I don’t like you very much right now.”  
  
Black tried to grab and hug Potter, but Potter broke away without a word and walked out the door.  
  
That left the three of them alone. Severus looked at Lupin, but, as always, Lupin avoided his gaze. It was Black who growled under his breath, “You tried to take my godson away from me. You bastard.”  
  
Severus refrained from pointing out that Black had done an excellent job of alienating his godson himself, by not telling him the truth about everything. “I followed Dumbledore,” he said instead. “The Dementors were sent by the Ministry to kill you, Black. This was not an accident. And Dumbledore sat still behind his desk instead of arguing legal matters of right and wrong, or trying to find you and stop them.”  
  
Black stared at him, his face twisting with anger and astonishment and grief. Severus knew he was on the verge of not believing him, so he added one more poke of the knife. “Just the way Dumbledore did not insist that you have a trial with Veritaserum originally, as I understand it?”  
  
“You’re lying,” Black breathed.  
  
“He’s not,” Lupin said unexpectedly. “It’s still close enough to the full moon, Sirius. I can tell the truth from his scent.”  
  
 _Congratulations, Lupin_ , Severus thought. _That is probably the most action you have taken in several years_. To Black, he said, “You have little choice but to become a fugitive once more. The Ministry, I think, will call the Dementors back as soon as they can, and Dumbledore either has failed to convince them or will try no longer.”  
  
“I want to take Harry with me,” Black said insistently.  
  
“It’s too dangerous, Sirius,” Lupin began, sounding apologetic.  
  
“You will take him when you kill me,” Severus said softly.   
  
Black stared at him again, and this time, so did Lupin. Severus ignored that and leveled his wand at Black. Black glanced at him, then over his shoulder. Perhaps he hoped to see Potter running back to forgive him, but that didn’t happen.  
  
“All right,” Black whispered. “All right, damn you.”  
  
Severus did not care how often he was damned. What mattered was that Black would be gone but still alive, so that Potter did not crash once again into apathy because of the loss of his godfather.  
  
And, from the way Lupin’s gaze lingered on Black as he turned into a dog and slunk out of the room, Severus rather thought that Lupin would be gone as well, following the fugitive as best as he could on two—or four—feet.   
  
*  
  
Harry stood in the corridor, next to Draco, who had put a hand on his shoulder, but that didn’t mean he was deaf. He heard everything that Snape said to Sirius, and he heard Sirius protest about taking Harry with him, and he heard him say, in the end, that he wouldn’t.   
  
And of course he couldn’t. He would be running fast, and spending a lot of time as a dog, and Harry knew that it would be dangerous to Sirius if Harry went with him, because Harry couldn’t change into a dog and was slow.  
  
He closed his eyes.  
  
Sirius lied sometimes. Sirius wasn’t as good as Harry had thought he was. But neither was Snape.  
  
And of course Harry couldn’t go home with Sirius for the summer.  
  
Harry wanted to scream and pound his fist against something, but he was too tired for that, and the hard, new thoughts crowded his head. Sirius was going to need someone strong. _He_ was strong, but he would be miserable if he thought that Harry was tormenting himself about going back to the Dursleys’.   
  
And Draco had been strong to face up to his father, and Snape had been strong to cast the Patronus to keep someone alive he hated. And even Remus had been strong, because he had convinced Sirius to leave.  
  
Harry had to be strong, too. He had to not complain about something no one could change, anyway. He had to be cheerful and face his own consequences. The Dursleys called him a freak and gave him hard work to do and starved him a bit, but so what? Harry didn’t feel anything for them like the fear he’d seen in Draco’s face when Draco looked at his father.  
  
And Draco had still fought him. Alone.  
  
Harry had to do the same with the Dursleys.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
He looked at Draco, and managed a small smile, because this was the time to start showing his new strength. He thought there was something Draco would like to know, since he’d followed Harry but still didn’t really get to be a part of the adventure. “You need a happy thought to make a Patronus,” he said. “But I couldn’t think of a happy thought, because there were too many Dementors. Then I heard you scream—”  
  
“Your happy thought was me screaming?” Draco scowled.  
  
“No,” Harry said. “My happy thought was you facing your father.”  
  
Draco’s jaw dropped, and he just stood there with nothing to say. Harry knew the feeling. He took Draco’s hand and shook it, and went on shaking it until he had something to say.  
  
“We’re still friends,” he said. “After Buckbeak and everything.”  
  
The look in Draco’s eyes was enough to carry him through Dumbledore arriving and talking to him about how sorry he was, but with the Ministry hunting Sirius, of course Harry would have to go back to Privet Drive for the summer. Harry could smile and nod and say he understood.  
  
He didn’t know if the look in Draco’s eyes was enough to get him through the summer, but he would try to make it be.  
  
*  
  
Draco had already made up his mind what he would do.   
  
There was courage everywhere, and he wanted to join in.   
  
So he waited until he had been back home for the summer holidays a week, and his father had gone to a Ministry function and wouldn’t be back for the night. Then he summoned Dobby, the house-elf.  
  
Dobby came in with both ears missing this time, his face covered with scars. One eye was gone, too. Draco stood still, with his hands clasped behind his back, and his heart beating so loudly in his own ears that it hurt.  
  
“What is Master Draco wishing?” Dobby’s voice was dull, and he looked at the ground as if _he_ wished it would open up and swallow him.  
  
“I have something for you,” said Draco, and then held out the sock he had saved and hidden from his laundry.  
  
Dobby stared at it. Then he took the sock from Draco with fingers that trembled and slid it carefully over his foot, looking at Draco all the time as if he thought he would take the sock back.   
  
“It’s a gift,” Draco said. “You’re free.”  
  
Dobby’s eye closed, and he started crying without sound. Draco just watched him until his own eyes got hot and itchy, and then he said, “You have to scatter blood around and use your magic to make it look like you died, or otherwise my father will wonder what happened to you and try to get you back. I have some manticore blood from Professor Snape’s stores that you can use.” He fetched the vial from his trunk and gave it to Dobby. “And I’ll tell my father that I ordered you to kill yourself because you were so useless.”  
  
“Master Draco is helping,” Dobby whispered. “Master Draco is brave.”  
  
“Of course I am,” said Draco.  
  
And then Dobby disappeared, and Draco stood there knowing, really knowing, that he was like Harry.  
  
 _More than like.  
  
His equal_.


	10. Surprises

  
“Boy!”  
  
Harry turned around to face Uncle Vernon. He’d been busy cleaning up the breakfast dishes, and usually, his uncle didn’t bother him whilst he was doing that. But now he was here, and, just like he had to do with any break in his routine, Harry kept his face blank and endured it.  
  
“What’s this, then?” Uncle Vernon demanded, and thrust a letter under Harry’s nose. Harry looked down at it. It was from Sirius, as the signature clearly said, and he saw a few words about “school” and “on the run” and “hunting Pettigrew.” He had to keep his hands from reaching out to grab it. He had learned the hard way never to grab something from his uncle.  
  
“That’s a letter from my godfather,” Harry said quietly.  
  
“Eh?” Vernon took a step back from him, his mouth hanging open. Harry watched him with contempt. He had only to think of the way Draco or Snape would take a shock like that—assuming the news was a shock at all, and they weren’t only pretending it was—to feel that contempt.   
  
_If you want to impress someone, restrain yourself_. Draco wouldn’t have fooled his father if he was wailing and upset about the embarrassment he’d pretended to feel.  
  
“ _You_ don’t have a godfather, boy!” Uncle Vernon stabbed a finger at him, face turning purple. “We would know if you did. Those freaks you call parents—”  
  
Harry interrupted quickly, because he could feel the bubble of magic building up in him, just the way it had when he blew up Aunt Marge last year, and he wanted to do something other than release it. “He came back this year, Uncle Vernon. He’d been in prison.”  
  
And _God_ , it was nice to see the simple truth widen Uncle Vernon’s eyes.  
  
“In p-prison?” Uncle Vernon licked his lips with a tongue that left a bit of spit at the corners of them. “What’d he do, then? Something unnatural?”  
  
“They thought he killed thirteen people,” Harry said peacefully. And it was still the truth. He’d told Uncle Vernon what everyone, even Dumbledore, believed about Sirius at the time.  
  
 _Dumbledore_. A bit of the overheard conversation between Snape and Sirius that Harry hadn’t paid much attention to until now came back to him. _Dumbledore didn’t insist on a trial for Sirius, and he didn’t come to rescue Sirius when the Dementors were coming after him.  
  
Why_?  
  
But then Uncle Vernon was speaking, and he would strike out fast and hard if he thought there was the slightest chance that Harry wasn’t paying attention to his all-important words. Harry forced himself to focus.   
  
“A m-murderer?”   
  
“That’s right,” Harry said. “And he’d be _very upset_ about it if he thought anything bad was happening to me. Like me not getting his letter.” He paused as if he’d forgotten something, then snapped his fingers. “Oh, yeah, that’s right, I forgot you’d heard of him! He’s that Sirius Black who escaped last year.”  
  
Uncle Vernon pushed the letter into his hands and backed away, his face like old cheese. Several times he stared at Harry before he lumbered out the kitchen door.  
  
Harry smiled and read the letter.  
  
As he’d suspected, it said Sirius was hunting Pettigrew. He thought Pettigrew might have gone to South America, and so he was there—enjoying the sun and far away from anyone trying to find him in Britain. Harry sighed in relief. He didn’t like what Sirius had done to Snape, but that was a long way from hoping he was captured and hauled back to the Ministry, or hoping that the Dementors Kissed him.  
  
He finished the breakfast dishes and went to check the list of chores on the door of the cupboard beneath the stairs. It was much longer than usual for a Saturday.  
  
Harry concealed another sigh. Standing up to the Dursleys didn’t do much good, because it didn’t win him the respect that Draco got from his father. They’d always find some little or petty way to strike back.  
  
But at least he would have the right to read Sirius’s letters. That, Harry thought as he grabbed the list and then went outside to grab the lawnmower, was something.  
  
*  
  
Draco paused on the threshold of Lucius’s study and looked around cautiously. No one was there, and he relaxed. He had known, of course, that his father had left the house to go to the Parkinsons’ and deal with some matter of distasteful business, but there could still have been a house-elf here, or even his mother, come to turn over the books that she never seemed to read. Draco wanted to be alone.   
  
He stiffened his spine as he walked further into the room, forcing himself to listen to his memories of Harry, and not the pounding of his heart. He had to be like Harry. He had to be brave. And that meant being a spy.  
  
Lucius didn’t ever tell him anything important, except bits of information related to Malfoy business. Those weren’t _secrets_. Draco could have given Harry and Professor Snape a list of the families they dealt with, but so what? If Professor Snape had really been a Death Eater, he would already know about them anyway, and most of them either didn’t have children in Hogwarts—they’d sent them all to Durmstrang—or had Slytherin children Draco could keep an eye on, so Harry wasn’t in danger from that.  
  
But lately his father had been smiling more often, and sometimes talking to Draco’s mother in an undertone that included the word “Potter.” So Draco knew something was going on. But he wasn’t a good enough liar yet to draw it out of his father.  
  
So he went looking.  
  
His father’s desk was covered with neat stacks of paper. Draco glanced at the top sheet of each, glad that Lucius was so organized. If one pile had a report from Gringotts in it, then Draco knew all the other papers in the pile would be the same thing.  
  
One pile was letters—and not business letters, because he had already passed those. Draco took a deep breath and began to flick carefully through them. He’d used a spell that would prevent any trace of his skin or scent from showing up on the paper; Lucius shouldn’t be able to detect them even if he had a werewolf with him.  
  
A letter from Mr. Parkinson, giving the suggestion that Draco and Pansy get betrothed now. Draco shuddered.  
  
A letter from the Ministry, informing Lucius that now was the right time to make his charitable contribution to the Fund for Widows and Orphans of the War. Draco rolled his eyes. _I can’t believe they’re so stupid. My father fought in that war and helped to make those widows and orphans! Don’t they see that he’s just giving them money to score political points_?  
  
A letter from the Wizarding Historical Society, requesting information on what had caused the feud between the Malfoys and Weasleys. Draco was tempted to stand there and read it, but he didn’t. He didn’t think the Society really knew anything already, and Lucius certainly wouldn’t tell them.  
  
A letter on thick, creamy parchment. Draco turned it around so he could see the signature, and gasped softly. The letter was from Walden Macnair, who worked for the Ministry and would have executed the hippogriff if Draco hadn’t stood up to Lucius. Draco knew that Macnair and Lucius had worked together before.  
  
Maybe it wasn’t very important, but it was the most exciting thing Draco had found so far. He looked at the top.  
  
 _Dear Lucius,  
  
It has come to my attention that you may know where a certain Very Important Artifact is. It has vanished from—_  
  
The door to the study opened.   
  
Draco wanted to jump and fling letters everywhere, but he didn’t. Even if Snape’s training in lying hadn’t been good enough to fool his father all the time yet, his training in controlling emotions and movements had been. Draco tucked the letter neatly back into place, smoothed the other letters on top of it, and turned around to face his father with Mr. Parkinson’s letter in his hand and a look of firm disgust on his face.  
  
“Draco.” Lucius stood in the doorway with a kind of coiled energy to him. Draco had gone to zoos and seen hunting entertainments; he knew jaguars coiled like that when they were about to spring on their prey. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Forgive me, Father,” Draco said, which he knew was always a good start. “But I _had_ to know if you were going to betroth me to Pansy Parkinson.” He flourished the letter at his father. “You’re not _really_ going to do it, are you?”  
  
Lucius curled his lip. “Has my loathing for that family not been made sufficiently clear to you?” He crossed to the desk with quick steps and examined the papers with a practiced eye. Draco ignored that. He’d been careful not to disturb the other piles, and if the letters were disturbed, that was only because Draco had been searching for _this_ letter.  
  
“I know,” said Draco, and controlled the impulse to step back as Lucius’s cane swept near him. “But Pansy wrote me the most appalling rubbish this week about how her father wanted it, and _she_ wanted it, and she was sure Mr. Parkinson had an offer that would get you to agree.”  
  
Lucius laughed, a sound, as far as Draco could tell, of genuine amusement. “There is nothing in the world that would fit that description,” he said. He picked up several of the letters, including, Draco was certain, the Macnair one, and tucked them into his cloak. “I can understand why you think you had a right to know this, Draco,” Lucius continued in slightly chiding tones, “since it concerns you. But in future, please ask me, instead of invading my privacy.” He held out his hand for Mr. Parkinson’s letter.  
  
Draco gave it back, but he kept his chin up, not accepting the soft, chilly rebuke implied by Lucius’s last words. “I know,” he said, “but it seems that you don’t trust me with much important business. I wasn’t sure that you would tell me if I asked. And you should. I’m growing up, now.” He took a deep breath and said the riskiest thing. “And I think I’ve proven that I care about the family dignity.”  
  
Lucius paused, his eyes hooded, his face still, and then nodded slowly. “You may be right about that, Draco. Consider this summer your introduction to the larger world. You will learn more about my political contacts, as well as the business that is incidental to the Malfoy fortune.”  
  
Draco kept his face serene as he nodded, but inwardly cheered and jumped up and down. Now he could really do some spying!  
  
And he was sure Lucius didn’t know he’d been snooping through the letters for something else. Draco would know the signs of _that_.  
  
*  
  
Severus sat back behind his desk and reached for the glass of tea he had promised himself when he had made an honest effort to search for the solution to the riddle. And though he knew he deserved it—though no one else could have spent this much time trying to figure out where Finnigan’s family line led to—he had no answers, and the tea failed to drown the bitterness in his mouth.  
  
 _Why should it be so hard to locate his relatives_? Severus rolled the tea around on his tongue and tried to think of possible answers to that question, but, as usual, the answers tumbled into darkness when he employed logic.  
  
Finnigan’s father was a Muggle. It made sense that his Muggle relatives would not exist in the records of the wizarding community. But Finnigan’s mother was pure-blood and from a family that had once enjoyed a fairly strong reputation as supporters of charitable groups. They had fallen off in wealth and power in the twentieth century, but the records still existed.  
  
It seemed, however, that every record Severus could find went back only to 1930, and that, though he knew the Goodbody family had existed in the nineteenth century and were related to Eleanor Goodbody, Finnigan’s mother, her parents might as well have been created from spontaneous generation. Everything from 1850 to 1930 was a blank.  
  
And where might they have learned such powerful Dark magic? There was no answer to that question, either. Severus could not find a single newspaper article about Eleanor Goodbody other than an announcement of her birth, none of her signatures on the books in Hogwarts’s library that concerned the Dark Arts, no records in the books available to him from colleagues that she had been trained by the Dark wizards who managed to evade the Ministry.   
  
And as for whether they had really had a Parselmouth relative…  
  
Severus grimaced. Many of the records of Parselmouths in Britain were also missing, but he knew the culprit in that case. The Dark Lord had destroyed them, fearing that someone who could challenge his dominance might have arisen if they had remained intact. After last year, when he had learned for sure that the Dark Lord was the Heir of Slytherin, Severus could see why.  
  
But none of this got him closer to a solution or explained Finnigan’s hostility to Potter. That hostility was quiet and simmering for now, but Severus knew people too well not to think it would explode again at some point.  
  
“Severus? Are you busy?”  
  
Dumbledore had come inside his wards without warning, and now stuck his head around the door. Severus restrained his sigh and nodded a greeting. If Dumbledore wanted to, he could take it as welcome. “Not so busy, Albus, now. Have a seat.”  
  
Dumbledore sat down on the chair in front of Severus’s desk and spent a moment staring thoughtfully into the fire. Severus waited, unimpressed. He recognized this tactic. It was meant to stir up either curiosity or uneasiness. Severus had very little of the latter left, and almost none of the former where the Headmaster was concerned.  
  
Except for one question, of course.  
  
 _Why did he not intervene to rescue Black_?  
  
But he would not get an answer to that question for asking. He would have to rely on observation and insight, the spy’s tools. Given that, Severus folded his hands in front of him now and patiently waited for Dumbledore to tire of his games.  
  
“Severus,” Dumbledore said at last, still gazing into the fire, “it has come to my attention that you spend a great deal of time with young Harry.”  
  
“Yes,” Severus said, “I do.”  
  
“Why?” And Dumbledore looked up, and looked him in the eye.  
  
Severus met the gaze without flinching. Dumbledore was an accomplished Legilimens, but not as much so as Severus was an Occlumens. “The boy’s Potions scores are abysmal,” he said. “But he shows some signs of intelligence. It is evident, therefore, that lack of effort and not cleverness prevents him from getting higher marks. I am trying to teach him to learn better.”  
  
“I have sensed some evidence of the Dark Arts coming from the dungeons,” Dumbledore said. “Vibrations from your wand have troubled me when we passed in the corridors.”  
  
“I am teaching him to defend against curses,” Severus said. “That naturally involves casting the curses.”  
  
“But why, Severus?” Dumbledore leaned forwards earnestly, the light shining on his glasses, and incidentally concealing his eyes. “Why not someone else? I know the boy was building a bond with Sirius before Sirius had to leave. And he was learning from Remus. Minerva actually brought me word that she was concerned, that Harry should have come to her for extra tutoring and did not.”  
  
Severus held absolutely still, and knew he was in more danger than Draco had been when facing Lucius.  
  
But he had been in far greater danger every day that he knelt at the Dark Lord’s feet.  
  
“I have remembered what I should have remembered long ago,” said Severus. “The thing you tried to hint gently to me, Albus, and which I did not manage to think of before now. To my shame,” he forced himself to add, though of course it wasn’t, not really.  
  
“And what is that?”  
  
“He is Lily’s son as well as James’s,” Severus said. “And I loved Lily.”  
  
It cut him to speak the last words aloud, but not as much it would have to speak them in front of an unknowing audience. Dumbledore knew every secret of his soul. And he would do worse to keep the boy with him. He had been prepared to kill Black.  
  
Besides, Severus knew this was almost the only thing he could say that would convince Dumbledore to go away and leave him alone.  
  
Dumbledore collapsed backwards as if someone had cut his strings. “Of course,” he said softly. “Severus, forgive me. I had unwarranted suspicions, and I must admit, I thought your soul had stopped growing some time ago. Forgive me,” he repeated.  
  
“Forgiven,” Severus said magnanimously, whilst his soul made quiet plans to pull Potter closer until even Dumbledore’s forbidding him to meet with Severus, if he did, would have no effect on the boy’s behavior.  
  
*  
  
Harry had nodded to Draco on the train, and Draco had walked past with his friends and hadn’t stopped, but he did nod back. And during dinner, he mouthed a few questions at Harry across the tables—mostly having to do with their secret meetings with Snape, Harry thought, since one of the most frequent words was “detention”—and Harry had to shrug and shake his head, because Snape hadn’t owled him at all over the summer. It seemed more likely that he would have contacted Draco than anyone else, because Harry wasn’t blind; he knew Draco was Snape’s favorite student.  
  
For a moment, he swallowed bitterness with his potatoes. Draco had the relationship with Snape that Harry had wanted to have with Sirius: guiding and subtle and full of things to talk about. His own father didn’t love him that much, but there was a substitute.  
  
Harry didn’t get to have that.  
  
A hand touched his arm. Harry banished the thoughts, because they were full of self-pity and not productive, and turned to look at Hermione, who was frowning at him. “We need to talk,” she said quietly.  
  
Harry swallowed more potatoes and nodded. He thought he knew what she wanted to talk about.  
  
And sure enough, when Hermione and Ron turned around and faced him in a corner of the Gryffindor common room far from the fire, and thus from the conversations and games of Exploding Snap going on near the hearth, the first words out of Hermione’s mouth were, “Are you friends with Malfoy, Harry?”  
  
Harry didn’t have a plan prepared for this. He had always vaguely hoped that he could put off telling Ron and Hermione for a while, and then a while longer, and try to make them see, slowly, that Draco was good.  
  
 _In some ways_ , he reminded himself, because Draco had still said some things about Hermione on the last day of school last year that Harry had almost hit him for.  
  
“Yeah,” he said, “I am.”  
  
Ron at once looked distressed. Before, he’d been half-smiling, and Harry decided he hadn’t really believed Hermione. “ _Why_ , mate?” he demanded. “What did he do? Did he cast the Imperius Curse? Because—”  
  
“It’s not the Imperius Curse, Ron,” Hermione snapped back. “There are ways to detect that, and I already used them on Harry.”  
  
 _Because she couldn’t trust me_. Harry didn’t say anything, though, because it wouldn’t do any good. Hermione had already cast the spells. He would just have to be more alert in the future, and try to explain things about the Slytherins in his life before his friends got to this point. “Yes, I’m friends with Malfoy,” he said. “Because he’s been telling me things about his father. Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater during the first war. Draco is trying to teach me things about him, so that I’m not caught off-guard when Voldemort comes back.”  
  
“But that’s dangerous, Harry,” Hermione said, her face immediately smoothing into lines of concern.  
  
“And you don’t need to be his _friend_ to do that,” Ron added, obviously more worried about that aspect of things.  
  
 _All right, a lie won’t work_. “Yeah, but I want to be,” said Harry. “And he was the one who got the execution against Buckbeak stopped, and he stood up to his father, and he did it because I _asked him to_. So he’s all right, all right?”  
  
He could sense a few other Gryffindors looking at him curiously, but none of them seemed to be listening in the way they would if they realized it was Malfoy Harry was talking about. And Hermione’s face was pink, and Harry realized that he was embarrassed, in turn, about yelling like that. He tugged irritably on his hair and added, “And I don’t think he’ll always be nice. But you don’t have to spend time with him. I promise. I was spending time with him last year, and it never made me have less time to fly with you or study with you, did it?”  
  
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “But what if he chooses his father over you when You-Know-Who comes back, Harry? How are you going to handle that?”  
  
“He won’t,” Harry said.  
  
“You can’t be confident of that.”  
  
“Then I can’t be confident of anything,” Harry said, and looked at Ron. “You don’t mind, do you, mate?”  
  
“Yeah, I do,” said Ron, and scowled at him. “But I know that you’ll go ahead and do it no matter what.”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry said, “I will.”  
  
After a moment, Ron gave a reluctant smile. Hermione glanced back and forth between the both of them, looking baffled, and then went back to trying to persuade Harry to leave Draco alone, “for his own good.”  
  
Harry ignored her. In some ways, he liked Hermione better than Ron; she got angry less easily. But in another way, he just had an understanding with Ron that he didn’t with Hermione, probably because she was a girl.  
  
And he understood Draco even better, but he didn’t think he could tell his friends why. Part of the secret was Draco’s, and part was his, the way the Dursleys always had been.  
  
*  
  
“But I don’t _understand_ that.”  
  
Severus just kept himself from grinding his teeth. The boy was testing his patience. He had seen for himself, in the battle against the Dementors and the confrontation with Black afterwards, that the boy had remarkable courage and stubbornness and magical power, and he was not stupid—not if he could see through the excuses that Black threw up to mask his own behavior. He should be able to grasp Potions. That he couldn’t was a failing on his part, not on Severus’s.  
  
“You would if you would concentrate,” Severus said, in lieu of the nastier comments he could have made.   
  
“I’ve been concentrating for the last _hour_!” Potter cast the stirring rod he’d been using down on the table and leaned forwards, not seeming to notice the way one of his robe sleeves was nearly trailing in the cauldron. Severus stared severely, but that didn’t make Potter take his sleeve out or realize he had almost broken the stirring rod, which was glass. “It’s no use. I’ll never make a good Potions brewer. Let’s just _concentrate_ on Defense Against the Dark Arts, instead.”  
  
Severus experienced a brief jolt of shock. That the brat could so far have lost his fear of Severus as to make demands and mock him was incredible.  
  
He took a step forwards, his eyes narrowed, one hand reaching out to scoop up the stirring rod and show the boy what should be done with it, the _simple_ motions that he could learn if he _wanted_ to, if he cared as much about potions as he did about Quidditch and the perverted spells that Dumbledore had given Moody permission to teach them—  
  
And then he realized that Potter had moved. Not a large movement, a small one, but back from the table. And now he was lightly poised on his feet, in a way that indicated he was ready to spring at a moment’s notice in any direction.  
  
His eyes were curiously blank. There was no longer any trust or openness in them, not that there had been much in the first place. He looked the way he had looked when Severus happened to pass Vector’s class one night: attentive and bored, as if he were putting up with a teacher he didn’t really like but had no alternative to.  
  
It struck Severus, then, that demands and mockery might be one way that Potter showed his comfort around someone.  
  
He took a deep breath and laid the stirring rod down. “Potter,” he said in a neutral voice, or at least as much of a neutral one as he could muster given the emotions and revelations of the moment, “perhaps you could tell me why you find it so difficult to remember Potions ingredients.”  
  
“I don’t like it. Sir.”  
  
Potter hadn’t called him sir in some time, except just after a duel, when Severus knew the title came from Potter’s respect for his spellcasting skills rather than for him as a person. He had fulminated against the omission in his head, but realized that he didn’t know a way to scold Potter on the matter without making him back away.  
  
 _As he just did._  
  
Even the dropping of the title might be—affectionate, in its way. Or at least a sign that Potter didn’t resent Severus’s instruction.  
  
“You don’t like Astronomy, either,” Severus said temperately, “and you mange good marks in that class.”  
  
Potter narrowed his eyes. _Lily’s eyes_. “How did you know that? Sir.”  
  
“I took an interest in your scores after the last year,” said Severus. “And I know that you possess the brains and the talents to succeed at this, Potter. Yes, the talent is not natural to you the way it is to Draco, or the way that your Quidditch talent is.” The words burned his mouth, since that “natural” talent at Quidditch was one of the ways that James Potter had become more popular than Severus himself ever would be, but it calmed Potter down to be praised. “But you can master it if you try. Why don’t you want to try?”  
  
Potter lowered his eyes for a moment and seemed to be struggling. Severus let him do it. In the end, Potter was the only one who could answer this question. Severus had come up with many theories on his own, but none of them fit all the circumstances present.  
  
“Because it doesn’t make a difference,” Potter said at last, in a low voice. “Whether I’m doing bad or doing good—”  
  
Severus, with an effort, held his tongue against his own instinctive desire to check the boy’s grammar.  
  
“You react the same. Sometimes you say it’s right, but you don’t say why I got it right, and I can try just as hard and not get it right.” Potter looked up at him, the light from the fire catching on his glasses and hiding his eyes this time in an uncanny mimicry of Dumbledore. “When I get something wrong, Professor Vector tells me so, and why. And so does Professor McGonagall. And they tell me when I get something right, and at least _smile_. With you, I can’t tell anything at all, and your explanations are too quick.”  
  
Severus did understand, then. And he would have understood it on his own if he had allowed himself to think about the matter in depth, rather than deciding that Potter was simply refusing to put in the necessary effort through some perverse reasoning of his own.  
  
Potter was one of those students who needed general theories explained to them, rather than the interactions of individual ingredients. Severus was reluctant to do so in his classes because the general theories held so many exceptions. There was no way to tell, if a student relied solely on them, when the ingredients one handled might be exceptions and need exceptional treatment.  
  
But he could begin with the theories, and Potter could follow on the individual details when he understood the subject from the base up.  
  
As for the other problem…  
  
Severus knew he could forge a connection with the boy if he explained his memories of Lily and revealed the bond that had existed between him and the woman he loved, his best friend. It would counterbalance the connection between Black and Potter’s father, and that would be all to the good.  
  
But he could _not_.  
  
The memories he shared with Lily were his. They were for no one else to paw over, not even her son. He could learn more about her from Black and Lupin, if he really wanted to know. He hadn’t asked any extensive questions, so Severus doubted it. Someone who had been an orphan for so long and from such a young age had probably got used to not having parents, anyway, and to dealing with missing memories.  
  
And he did not want to join the general chorus of praise that would pour over Potter as he began to become a hero, to go against the Dark Lord, and to face Dementors and other Dark creatures. If he thought of himself as a hero, he was more likely to take insane risks. He would get all the positive reinforcement he needed from his friends, from Dumbledore, and now from Draco. There had to be someone in his life who would treat him more sternly.  
  
“I will explain more slowly,” Severus said.  
  
Potter seemed to recognize it as the best compromise he’d get. He nodded and picked up the stirring rod again. “That would help.”  
  
If his voice was a bit flat and a bit dull…well, Severus ignored it. The deepest and bitterest truth of the world, and the one it had taken him the longest to accept, was that no one got everything he wanted.  
  
*  
  
Harry had decided they should sit by the lake today. Draco didn’t much care. He was too deliriously happy that Harry had acknowledged that they were friends when he returned from the summer holidays and that he hadn’t lied to the Gryffindors—for long, at least—or ignored Draco.  
  
Eventually, that attitude would wear off, Draco knew, and he would stop acting pathetic simply because one of his childhood dreams had come true. But he was prepared to indulge himself for now. He had so few childhood dreams, and so few ever came true.  
  
Harry was lying on his back under a small tree when Draco arrived. He opened one eye, grunted, and closed it again. Draco sat down next to him and leaned his back against the tree, looking into the lake. He was quietly happy that Harry didn’t think he had to sit up, or draw his wand, or do anything else that would show he considered Draco a threat.  
  
“How was your summer?” Harry asked lazily.  
  
He had asked that before, but their conversation had been interrupted by Granger, who had “accidentally” run into them in the library and declared that she needed to talk to Harry about Charms homework. Draco pulled his legs up and spent a few moments looking for a stone, which he picked up and flung into the lake. “Busy,” he said. “I said that I wanted to learn about more important things, so my father’s telling me about them.”  
  
“Important things?” Harry sounded so gentle and so uninterested that Draco would have been insulted, except he knew it came from that same trust that made Harry lie on his back in Draco’s presence, his wand firmly in his robe pocket.  
  
“Things like what political connections he has, and the Dark Arts spells that he uses most often,” Draco said.  
  
Harry turned his head towards him and opened his eyes. Draco expected to see excitement there, but all he could make out was concern. “Are you sure you should be asking about that? It could be dangerous.”  
  
“I know it could be,” Draco said, a little annoyed that Harry wasn’t happy to have a spy in the middle of a Death Eater house. The thought of what he was doing, and how much Harry would appreciate it, had comforted Draco when he was bored silly by another of Lucius’s meandering, insistent conversations. “But it’s the only way I can help you.”  
  
“Help me do what?” Harry wrinkled his forehead.  
  
 _Honestly. He really is thick sometimes_. “Help you fight the Dark Lord, of course,” Draco said patiently.  
  
Harry sat up then and reached out to put a hand on Draco’s arm. “I don’t want you to choose between your father and me,” he said.  
  
“Are you blind or what?” Draco really was feeling annoyed by now. He pulled away from Harry and ran a hand through his hair. His father and Pansy weren’t around to tell him he was messing it up. “I already did. That was what that confrontation with him last year was all about.”  
  
“But—” Harry looked at the lake, so obviously fumbling for words that Draco wanted to say something. How was he going to be an inspiring public speaker and become Minister, the way that of course he would when he was a hero and had defeated the Dark Lord, if he kept hesitating like that?  
  
“I thought that wasn’t permanent,” Harry said at last. “I thought that was just about one thing, and you could go back to liking him later.”  
  
“I still like him,” Draco said. “I love him. But we aren’t on the same political side anymore. You and I are. And we’re friends.” He held his breath a moment, wondering if Harry was about to deny that again.  
  
“We are,” Harry said, which at least reassured Draco on that score. Harry bowed his head and sat still like that, except for a hand that twitched and opened again and again on his knee, as if he were struggling not to grasp his wand.  
  
“What’s so hard to understand about it?” Draco flung another stone at the lake with great force. “I chose your side. You’re my friend, and I wanted to.”  
  
“But I’m only fighting Voldemort because he killed my parents,” Harry said, and looked up. The expression in his eyes froze Draco. It was so determined, as if he had looked death in the face. And he had, Draco thought, thinking of the basilisk and the Dementors. “I don’t have a choice. You do, just like Ron and Hermione. I mean, I’m grateful for the help, and I know that my friends want to help me, but that doesn’t mean you need to abandon your whole lives and everything you were raised with. I wouldn’t expect Ron to leave his whole family if it turned out that one of them was a Death Eater.”  
  
Draco felt a stirring of deep pity, which, for the first time, wasn’t connected to the thought that Harry had refused his friendship for the Weasel’s. _He really doesn’t understand about war._  
  
Draco put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I can’t imagine the Weasleys would become Death Eaters,” he said. “But if one of them did, then either the rest of his family would cast him out, or the whole family would follow the Dark Lord, too, or Wease—Weasley would have to choose you over him. That’s just the way it _works_ , Harry. How can you stay close to someone who’s your best friend’s deadly enemy? This isn’t just a political disagreement. My father disagrees with people and then works with them again. This is _war_. People will try to _kill_ you.”  
  
“But at least it only has to be me,” Harry insisted. “It doesn’t have to be you, too.”  
  
“You’re not leaving me behind again,” Draco said quietly.  
  
“But war isn’t an adventure—”  
  
“And the adventure was only an excuse, really,” Draco said. “I’ve realized I want something more than that.”  
  
“What?” Harry asked warily. His fringe was hanging in his eyes, making him look half-wild.  
  
“Your company,” Draco said. “Your friendship. To—share.” He had to leave it there, because he couldn’t have listed all the things he wanted to share with Harry if he talked for an hour. “So I’ll be with you. And you can try to leave me behind, but you’d have to tie up my legs and my arms and break my wand. Much easier just to have me with you, right?”  
  
And maybe Harry didn’t understand about war, and maybe he still thought the sacrifice Draco was making was wrong, but he had a slow warm smile that, right then, made Draco feel any sacrifices were worth it.  
  
*  
  
“Severus.”  
  
“Igor.”  
  
It was no use trying to avoid Karkaroff. Severus already knew that. What he had done was catch the man’s eye shortly after the Durmstrang contingent arrived, and then stand up from the High Table a bit early. Karkaroff had followed him, of course, and now they stood together in a dungeon corridor not far from Severus’s office.  
  
Karkaroff had changed less than Severus would have thought he had. He hadn’t tried to hide his hair color, his eyes, or anything else from the past, at least, except for the thick glamour spells Severus could sense wound about the Dark Mark on his arm. Severus disdained such things as long as the Mark was a dormant, barely noticeable scar. Such spells were more likely to attract the attention of anyone with sensitivity.  
  
Of course, considering the magical signatures of most of his students, Severus supposed Karkaroffhe did not often need to worry about that. He was glad that Lucius had not sent Draco to Durmstrang, as he knew Lucius had once considered doing. A young child’s magical signature could expand or fluctuate, contract or change, in association with many other children’s. Draco had become more powerful at Hogwarts, where he was surrounded by powerful professors and older students, than he would have been under Karkaroff’s tutelage.  
  
And part of that probably came from Karkaroff carefully directing the teaching so that none of his students would challenge him at a duel. He was unchanged in mind or attitude, either.  
  
“Have you felt it?” Karkaroff demanded, leaning forwards.  
  
Severus raised an eyebrow. “Felt what?”  
  
“The tingles in your arm,” Karkaroff said. “The flashes of phantom pain.” He hesitated, then leaned even nearer and hissed, “The visions.”  
  
“No,” Severus said, though a cold hand opened and engulfed his spine. “You are deceiving yourself as usual, Igor.” He folded his arms.  
  
“He is awake again,” Karkaroff insisted, “and on the move.” Though he folded his arms in answer, it looked more as if he were trying to comfort himself than anything else. “It is foolish to ignore this.”  
  
“I have felt nothing,” Severus insisted. And he truly had not. He knew Pettigrew stood a chance of finding and resurrecting the Dark Lord, but on the other hand, though the Dark Lord would certainly know that magic, he was not in a state that would allow him to perform the physical spells. And Pettigrew’s skill, if enough to become an unregistered Animagus, was not enough by itself to reach those heights of evil.  
  
 _Evil_. There was little in the world that Severus would call by that word, knowing how many times his Slytherins and ordinary human behavior had been named evil.  
  
The magic the Dark Lord studied was part of that little.  
  
“You are not lying to me?” Karkaroff’s eyes searched Severus’s face intently.  
  
“I am not.” _I will not tell him about Pettigrew. He has offered me no information worth the trade, and it would only panic him._  
  
“Then, perhaps…” Karkaroff trailed off, and didn’t tell Severus what he thought the visions and pains might be instead. He simply turned around and walked away.  
  
Severus was just as glad. He did not wish to be entangled with the Death Eaters again. He had done enough spying to pay his debt to Dumbledore, and he did not like the constant pressure and discomfort of such a life. No one had _fun_ among the Death Eaters save those, like Macnair, for whom the opportunity to cause pain was enough.  
  
And there was the constant reminder, every time his left arm brushed against a sleeve or a wall or a shelf, that the reason he had lost Lily was forever branded on his skin.  
  
*  
  
Draco was avoiding him, and Harry had no idea why.  
  
Of course, in the last few days that school had gone mad with the arrival of the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students, and Harry reckoned that it was easy for someone whose House they were living with to get distracted by Viktor Krum. He hadn’t been able to go to the Quidditch World Cup—Uncle Vernon’s petty revenge for Sirius’s letters—but he’d heard Ron describe Krum’s playing. Harry fervently hoped that he would get to see it happen, though Quidditch at Hogwarts had been canceled for the year.  
  
Meanwhile, the rest of his life seemed ordinary enough. Ron sometimes grumbled about Draco, but mainly, seemed to think that not mentioning him would make him go away. Hermione was researching the history of the Triwizard Tournament and, now, age-lines. In a way, Harry admired her, because she only had to hear about or see something and then she was interested in and researching it. But he found the _thought_ of it exhausting. He didn’t have that much energy.  
  
Draco finally went past him as they were leaving Care of Magical Creatures, and Harry took the chance to step in at his side, since Crabbe and Goyle were trailing behind. Draco didn’t notice the change at first; he was looking at the ground and frowning all the while.  
  
Then he looked up and saw Harry, and his face contorted and turned ugly. “What are you doing here?” he asked in a harsh whisper.  
  
“I wanted to know why you haven’t been talking to me,” said Harry. “If I offended you by talking about your father—”  
  
Draco laughed, and the sound was one he would have made last year, back when Buckbeak attacked him. “You have no idea, do you?” he demanded. “None at all?”  
  
“Er, no,” Harry said, and then turned around and stepped in front of Draco. “So tell me.”  
  
Draco clenched his fists and fumed for a moment, clearly wanting to keep silent. But Harry had learned that just looking bored would make Draco burst out with something. He hated it when there was a chance he might not have Harry’s or Snape’s attention.  
  
“You’ve been staring at _her_ the entire time,” Draco said, and pointed across the grounds.  
  
Bewildered, Harry followed the direction of his finger, and saw Cho Chang walking with several of her friends. She laughed and tossed her hair back, and Harry felt a smile creep across his lips.  
  
“ _See_?” Draco said, in highly aggrieved tones.   
  
“Do you like her?” Harry looked at him curiously. He’d never noticed Draco paying any attention to Cho, but he could have missed it. According to both Draco and Snape, he missed a lot.   
  
“ _No_!”  
  
And then Draco pushed past him and ran madly towards the school. Crabbe and Goyle followed him with mildly threatening scowls at Harry, as if they didn’t know whether he was an enemy or not, but didn’t want to take any chances.  
  
Harry blinked, and dropped slowly back to join Ron and Hermione, who asked him questions he couldn’t answer.  
  
*  
  
Draco had managed to control himself by the time he came down to dinner, but he didn’t look at the Gryffindor table. He wouldn’t give Harry the satisfaction of thinking that he could possibly play around with Draco’s attention like that.  
  
Besides, Harry would just be staring at the Chang girl again.  
  
Moodily, Draco spooned carrots onto his plate and then mashed them into unidentifiable pieces. He couldn’t even say why Harry staring at Chang made him so angry, except that it _did_. He felt that he should have the first claim on Harry’s attention after his friends, and Chang got too much of it. And then Harry didn’t even seem to realize he was doing it, and asked if _Draco_ liked her.  
  
Draco snorted. _She’s skinny and self-absorbed and too pretty. Why would I like her?_  
  
He just wanted his fair share of Harry’s time, that was all. And Harry still didn’t realize when he was withholding himself and treating Draco differently than he did Granger and the Weasel.  
  
At least he had the choosing of the Hogwarts Champions to watch. He was completely unsurprised when Viktor Krum was chosen for Durmstrang. It had become obvious, after spending a few days around those students, that Krum was the best of them, magically and physically and intellectually.  
  
A beautiful girl, probably half-Veela, was chosen for Beauxbatons. Draco found it hard to pull his eyes away from her as she went to the front of the room. He wouldn’t have blamed Harry if he was interested in someone like _that_.  
  
And then a Hufflepuff, of all people, was chosen for Hogwarts. Draco had to stop rolling his eyes after a moment, or they would have rolled out of his head. The Goblet had no sense at all. Well, of course not, it was a mindless magic artifact. He felt silly now for having anticipated its choice so keenly.  
  
He was about to turn back to his dinner when a fourth piece of paper shot out of the Goblet and into Dumbledore’s hand. The Headmaster first looked surprised, then grave, as he read it. When he looked up, it was to stare at the Gryffindor table with an expression of pity on his face.  
  
“And Harry Potter,” he said, with some difficulty, “is second Champion for Hogwarts.”  
  
Amid the roar of sound that erupted around him—among the Slytherins, it was mostly exclamations of envy and speculation about how he could have cheated the age line—Draco stared at Harry, too, betrayed. Harry hadn’t told him about _that_ , but he’d probably told the Mudblood.  
  
But then he saw Harry’s shocked expression, and the way the Weasel was leaning away from him and the Mudblood was staring at him in concern, and a conviction grew up rapidly in Draco’s mind.  
  
 _He didn’t know about this. He doesn’t know what’s happening.  
  
And now he’ll have to compete in a tournament full of dangerous challenges.  
  
This wasn’t his fault. It’s the Dark Lord trying to kill him again._  
  
And the conviction turned into a resolve to support Harry as fully as he could. The Weasel couldn’t do that, from his reaction; the Mudblood was a girl and would get in the way; Chang didn’t know Harry well enough. Snape would decide Harry was arrogant and had somehow managed it on his own. (Snape seemed to think Harry was incompetent half the time and too competent the rest, which didn’t help him teach Harry). Draco was the one with the best chance and the best reason to help him.  
  
 _Everything will be all right, after all_ , Draco thought, half to himself and half to Harry, as Harry rose slowly to his feet and walked into the room off the Great Hall where the other Champions had gathered. _I’ll have you, and you’ll have me.  
  
And who else do we need?_


	11. Outrage

  
“If you would just give me a chance to explain.”  
  
But Harry said it in a dead voice, because he didn’t think Ron would really give him the chance, and he knew he was saying it in a dead voice from the furious, helpless look Ron gave him. Then Ron turned around, folded his arms, and tried to pretend that he wasn’t upset and the people leaning out of the Great Hall to stare at them had nothing to stare at.  
  
“No,” he said. “The only thing is—” He took a deep breath, one that sounded like he was about to cry, but didn’t quite get there. “The only thing is,” he managed at last, “if you were going to put your name in the Goblet because you figured out some way to get past the age line, then I wish you’d told _me_ , too, so I could have competed.”  
  
“I didn’t put my name in the Goblet,” said Harry, the same thing he had said fifty times in the room where he had gathered with the Champions and Dumbledore had told him he would have to compete in the Tournament now that his name had been pulled out.   
  
“Sure you didn’t, mate,” Ron said. For the first time, he turned to scowl at Harry. Harry stared back, his cheeks burning as he realized how public this was. They were out in the entrance hall, clearly visible from half the tables in the Great Hall, because Harry had tried to go to Ron the minute he came out of that side room and Ron had walked away the minute he saw him coming. Ron seemed to realize it, too, but he just looked bitter and proud and satisfied about it. “Somebody _else_ dropped your name in, I reckon? Someone who wanted you to compete instead of winning themselves?”  
  
“Well, why not?” Harry asked hotly. “You told me that there was suspected Death Eater activity this summer!” Someone gasped behind him, but at the moment, he didn’t give a toss who it was. “I think this is Voldemort’s newest plan to kill me, and—”  
  
Ron walked away.  
  
“Ron, wait!” Harry yelled after him, but he didn’t run up to him again. If Ron was going to be like _that_ about it, then maybe Harry should just wait until he’d bloody well calmed down.  
  
Hermione stepped up to his side and put a hand on his shoulder. “Give him time,” she whispered, which startled Harry. Hermione’s advice and his thoughts were almost _never_ in agreement. “I know you didn’t do it.”  
  
Harry gave her a wan smile. “Thanks, Hermione.”  
  
“I know you didn’t do it, either,” a new voice said from behind them.  
  
“Malfoy,” Hermione said, in a strained voice, “just run along and play with poisonous snakes or whatever it is you do in the dungeons. This is for Harry’s _real_ friends to handle.”  
  
But Harry had already turned around, and he’d seen the sincerity in Draco’s eyes—along with an intensity that he didn’t really understand—and made his own decision.  
  
“He can stay,” he said. “I think I’ll need the support, Hermione.” He pointed at the Hufflepuff table, all of which was glaring disdainfully at Harry except Cedric himself, who gave a helpless shrug and a “what can you do?” look in Harry’s general direction.  
  
“But, Harry,” Hermione said, and tugged on his arm as if she thought he was actually going to move away from Draco and leave him alone, “he’ll make Ron more angry.”  
  
“I don’t care about that,” Harry and Draco said at the exact same time. Harry blinked and looked at Draco, who was smirking. He took a step forwards and rested a hand on Harry’s shoulder for a moment, his expression blissful.  
  
“I don’t know what to do,” Hermione whispered.  
  
“No one expects you to know what to do all the time, Granger,” said Draco, in a tone so patronizing that Harry sighed to himself. He would have to do something about that if he was going to survive to the end of the Tournament with both his friends intact. “But it’s perfectly clear to _me_. We support Harry, of course.”  
  
Harry couldn’t think of anything to say that was big enough for that, so he just clasped Draco’s hand.  
  
*  
  
Severus had avoided Potter’s company for several days—other than the obligatory moments in Potions class when he must examine the brat’s brewing—because two sets of his instincts were in conflict.  
  
On the one hand, of course Potter had put his name in the Goblet. His arrogance directed him towards danger and glory, and the Tournament, with challenges meant for seventh-year students and others still older, was the biggest chance at that he would ever have.  
  
On the other, Severus did not believe that Potter possessed the brilliance to figure out a way past the age-line, particularly one of Dumbledore’s devising.  
  
And on a third hand still, Potter seemed to have taken his exile from Severus’s company quietly. He didn’t hang about with a hopeful look on his face waiting for the Potions and Dark Arts tutoring to resume; he didn’t ask tearfully, or resentfully, why Severus had canceled their meetings for the next week without warning. What could that mean but that he understood his crime and accepted Severus’s punishment for it?  
  
And on a fourth hand yet again, when had Potter _ever_ taken any punishment in good part?  
  
So Severus was conflicted, and he did not trust himself to act rationally towards the boy until he had resolved his feelings.   
  
He was in his office one night a week after the Goblet’s choosing when someone knocked. Severus looked up, eyes narrowed, his body tense and vibrating with several emotions at once. _Lily, does your son have your courage to admit to wrongdoing_? “Enter,” he said.  
  
Draco stepped inside. Severus drew a breath of both relief and disappointment, and nodded. “Yes, Draco, what help did you need?” The boy had not shown interest in continuing the specific acting and lying lessons Severus had given him last year when he confronted Lucius, but Severus had tried to slip in such ideas as were helpful to him during tutoring sessions about other things. It was one of the few times he could enjoy teaching, that activity he was otherwise condemned to do as part of his penance for betraying Lily and orphaning Potter.  
  
 _And will he not feel your current coldness towards him as part of that same pain_?  
  
Of course not, Severus knew, because Potter was unaware of the initial betrayal. He was glad to have an excuse to put aside such thoughts and focus on Draco as Draco stepped up to the desk.  
  
“I came to tell you that you’re losing him,” said Draco. “I didn’t know if you would care, given the way you’ve treated him in these last weeks, but you are.” He paused for a moment, staring at Severus as if he wanted to see something in his face that Severus had no idea existed. Then he shrugged. “And I reckon you don’t care, and I didn’t need to waste my time coming here. Oh, well. Goodbye.” And he turned his back.  
  
“Wait.” Severus made it sound cool and calm, the way he would have if a student was trying to walk out of detention early, rather than desperate. He could be proud of that, at least, he thought, as he stood up from behind his desk and glided forwards. Draco folded his arms and looked up at him with no expression in his eyes, and suddenly Severus saw the disadvantage of training a pupil in lying, at least when that pupil wasn’t slavishly dependent on oneself. He came to a stop and let his own cool eyes and countenance wring a small squirm out of Draco. When he was certain he saw it, Severus continued in a softer voice. “What do you mean, I am losing him? To whom do you refer?”  
  
“Harry, of _course_.”  
  
There was too much disgust in Draco’s voice. Severus was compelled to try and lessen its weight. “I am unaware of any special reason that I might have to be concerned about Potter, or any endeavor in which he participates that I can lose him from—”  
  
“Oh, come _off_ it.” The emotion was back, but it was scorn, and Draco actually took several steps towards him, which did not fit in with Severus’s general plan of intimidation. “That’s the problem. Even when it’s clear that you want to influence him and teach him, you can’t show that you care. Even when you practically said that you would die to keep him safe to Black last year. Harry’s simpler than we are. More straightforward. He needs some sign that you care, and since you’ve just glared at him in the last week, he thinks that you think he put his name in the Goblet. And that means you don’t care anymore,” Draco finished in a rush.  
  
“He _did_ put his name in the Goblet,” Severus said. He had not known which conclusion he would reach until he said it. “He may have convinced you that he did not—”  
  
“I know he didn’t,” said Draco. “Why would he? He didn’t know about the Triwizard Tournament, didn’t want to compete in it. What he wanted to do was play Quidditch. And why would he do something that made his best friend so angry with him? Isn’t it more likely to be another plot of the Dark Lord’s? Which makes the most _sense_?”  
  
Severus narrowed his eyes and responded, “What seems to be common sense is often only the ignorance of the masses,” because the accusation had shaken him as he had not thought anything could, and he needed to take a moment to sort out his feelings.  
  
 _Is it really so much stranger that the Dark Lord would try to kill him this way than that he would put his own name in the Goblet? Especially because you would have found out any extraordinary talent in casting spells by now? Yes, perhaps Granger helped him to cross the age-line, but there is no reason for her not to share the information with Weasley in that case.  
  
And I cannot credit a Gryffindor conspiracy that would put one of them forward as a candidate for the Champion and then pretend that the other is offended in order to maintain a charade of innocence._  
  
“Then I suppose it just comes down to who I believe,” said Draco. “I choose to believe Harry, not the Weasel, and not Blaise.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s going around making those ‘Potter Stinks’ badges, do you know? He claims that he’s angry Potter’s taking attention away from Diggory, but he’s not. He just wants to cause trouble, and this is the best way he knows of to do it.”  
  
“If I were to believe Potter,” Severus said stiffly, “what would it gain me in return?”  
  
“His presence in your lessons again,” said Draco, “if that matters to you. His better marks in Potions, so that he could keep the bargain you made with us last year. I know you don’t think he’s been trying,” he added, when he saw Severus’s eyebrows rise, “but he has. I’ve been tutoring him.”  
  
“And what do you get out of it?” Severus asked softly.  
  
“His friendship,” Draco said.  
  
“I had hoped that you would be over this clinging dependence on him by now, Draco.” Severus took a few steps forwards, his eyes locked on Draco’s face, which had flushed and then grown pale in rapid succession. If he could make someone else uncomfortable, then he would not count the evening entirely wasted. “Instead, you worship Potter ever more assiduously, as if he were Merlin come to earth. Why? Why cannot you behave like a Slytherin and claim some benefit for yourself from this, instead of merely becoming Potter’s adjunct?”  
  
Draco hesitated for a long moment before he replied. Severus felt triumph surge up in him. _I have him. I am not the only one floundering here, the only one who does not have answers for everything I would like to have them for._   
  
“I—this is what I want, for right now. My friendship with him is too new. It’s like my relationship with my father,” Draco added, in a comparison he must have thought was inspired. “If I demand too much at once, I won’t get anything at all. I need to go slowly and hope that he’ll come to give me more when he’s ready.”  
  
“That still subjects you to Potter,” Severus said, determined to push. _No matter why he believes Potter, I do not like to see one of my best students harnessed to his arrogance and self-aggrandizement_. “I picture you as a beggar waiting for a handout, Draco. I would see you become a Potions master, the way that you have the talent to. Not Potter’s servant, not merely his friend, not someone who is reduced to running errands that he could not bother to run himself.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” Draco demanded crossly. “What errands?”  
  
 _Can he not keep his mind on something that is not Potter for one moment_? But Severus refrained from rolling his eyes, because he didn’t think that the gesture would do anything at the moment but drive Draco away. “This one,” he said. “Coming to tell me that he didn’t put his name in the Goblet, and that I’ll lose him if I don’t watch out. That sounds rather like a childish threat. Perhaps you might consider telling Potter that I do not react well to threats. If he wants the tutoring, if he can admit to himself that he needs it, then he will do best if he comes to me with a personal apology and—”  
  
“He has no idea that I’m doing this,” Draco interrupted, and his eyes were sharp again, his stance firm. “I thought I’d warn you because, earlier, you seemed to care about what happened to him, or at least you acted like you did. Maybe I was wrong about that.”  
  
Severus hissed under his breath. _The boy presumes to dictate my emotions_? “I would care more about him if he could—”  
  
“He doesn’t even realize that you’re waiting for an apology, or anything else,” Draco broke in again, as fiercely as before. “He’s used to being abandoned by people, and he just thinks that you’ve done the same thing to him. So he’ll live with it, and go on.” He shook his head. “You’re both stubborn, but at least he’s a kid, and a Gryffindor, so he’ll grow up six times slower than normal anyway at everything except Quidditch. You’re an adult. Shouldn’t you know better by now?”  
  
Severus opened his mouth to yell about the desperate unfairness of making characterizations like this.  
  
But by that time, Draco had already shut the door behind him and retreated into the corridor.  
  
Severus sat down behind his desk and glared at the door. The only consolation he had was that he had seen Draco ducking his head as he stepped into the corridor, sweeping one hand across his eyes.  
  
 _I affected him to the point of tears—or almost. And even that is a more childish reaction than I would have wished for him to have._  
  
It was a small comfort indeed, but, at the moment, Severus thought he would have to take comfort where he could find it.  
  
*  
  
 _Are you running another errand for Potter_?  
  
The voice had the poisonous sharpness with which Professor Snape had spoken to him when he tried to intervene between him and Harry. Draco shook his head, grimly. He couldn’t allow other thoughts to interfere with his task right now, which meant he had to put them aside and do what was in front of him.  
  
 _Another errand for Potter.  
  
No_ , Draco argued back, as he ducked around a tree and then paused and renewed the Disillusionment Charm on himself, just in case it had faded. They were doing their best to prevent anyone from seeing what the first task in the Tournament was. Draco wouldn’t put it past the people who were pouring into Hogwarts to help with and judge the competition to have spells up that negated Disillusionment Charms.  
  
 _I call him Harry. And the only reason I’m doing this one is that he has to know something about the Tasks, in order to win, and he won’t condone cheating himself_.  
  
But now Draco was almost there, almost at the mysterious closed-off place where they were keeping whatever-it-was that Harry would be facing. Anyone who paid the slightest bit of attention—all right, anyone who paid the slightest bit of attention and had Durmstrang students living in one’s House—could have found the place, and guessed this was the afternoon they were bringing the creatures in.  
  
Because Draco was sure it would be magical creatures. He’d done some reading on Tournaments from the past few hundred years, before they’d been discontinued as too dangerous. And every time, the First Task was magical creatures.  
  
 _Harry should have done the reading, but he’s too busy chasing around after Weasley and trying to find some evidence that it was the Dark Lord behind this._  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. He could be annoyed about the Weasley thing, but he had to admit the second part made sense. Except, well, Harry was already in the Tournament now, and it seemed really likely that it was a plot by the Dark Lord to kill him, and he couldn’t leave because the Goblet of Fire created a binding magical contract. So why waste time trying to prove who had done this instead of living with the consequences and planning to _survive_ them?  
  
 _I’ll have to teach him better.  
  
And that is what you want to acquire? A student?_  
  
Draco was so busy scowling to himself about the way that Snape’s voice had begun to blend with his own thoughts that he nearly didn’t recognize what he was staring at until he heard the bellow.  
  
He snapped out of it, then, and stared. He was behind the oaf Hagrid’s house, near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, on a piece of ground that scarcely anyone glanced at, and which Draco thought had probably been specially charmed to make it even more unnoticeable. They probably planned to hide the creatures they were bringing down now in the Forbidden Forest or cast an Instant Building Spell over them, but at the moment, they were visible in their full glory.  
  
The First Task was dragons.  
  
Draco saw at least four of the common species, but he couldn’t identify them all at once, because they were flaming red and blazing purple and tossing gold horns and spikes and tails, and he was too busy feeling sick with worry.  
  
 _Harry has to face them. How in the world is he going to do it? He isn’t a seventh-year student like Krum and Delacour. He hasn’t studied all the fancy Transfiguration and Charms that you can do to fight a dragon, and as for fighting it with a potion—that’s a laugh.  
  
What is he going to_ do?  
  
The Dragon-Keepers were walking around the edge of the field, shouting to each other, casting careful spells that were probably meant to calm the dragons’ tempers (though Draco couldn’t see that they did much good). They looked like peas against the immense bulk of the beasts. Draco remembered all the fairy tales that his mother had told him about dragons eating people and so on before the wizards decided to confine them to preserves, and swallowed back nausea.  
  
Then he took a deep breath. _We fight them, that’s how. We do research.  
  
And I’ll show Severus that I can have more than just a student, or a burden, or a friend who doesn’t appreciate me. I’ll have someone who respects me as an equal and someone who needs the help only I can give. _  
  
As he turned away from the field and began to make his way, carefully, back towards the school, Draco had a fleeting thought that he grinned at, because he knew it would have made Professor Snape turn purple.  
  
 _And if friendship is dependence, then I’ll just have to make sure that he’s dependent on me right back._  
  
*  
  
“Hi, Ron,” Harry said, trying to make his voice calm and neutral as he walked up behind the table in the library where Ron and Hermione sat. They were all assigned the same basic essay in Charms, to study Summoning Charms and write about their consequences on wizarding society. Harry thought Ron ought to get along with him for _that_. No one said study partners had to be friends.  
  
But the moment he heard Harry’s voice, Ron stopped arguing with Hermione, stiffened his shoulders, and began to pick up his books and slam them into a big pile. Harry swallowed. He had been angry at Ron—purely angry, an emotion that Draco had backed him up on—but it had been weeks now, and Ron was just as stubborn about it as he had been at first. He wouldn’t listen to any explanations that Harry made.  
  
“Ron, please,” Hermione said, with so much strain in her voice that Harry thought she might start crying.  
  
“I can’t help it,” Ron snapped, and then he spun around to face Harry for the first time since Harry’s name came out of the Goblet of Fire. Harry smiled a little. Maybe he was ready to listen. But instead Ron snarled at him, “I don’t care about you breaking the rules. We’ve broken the rules before, and that’s what we needed to do to survive. But I care about you not _sharing_ the rule-breaking with me. I care about the fact that you only wanted to put your name in the Goblet and didn’t care about mine.”  
  
And then he ran away and out of the library. Harry stood staring after him until Hermione gently cleared her throat.  
  
“How well can you perform Summoning Charms?” she said, too brightly.  
  
Harry sat down where Ron had been and took a deep breath. He wouldn’t allow himself to worry too much about this. Ron would come back in the end. He _had_ to. He and Harry had shared too many profound experiences for him to just abandon their friendship like that.  
  
Hadn’t they?  
  
But Harry remembered people in primary school who had laughed with him for a morning before Dudley found them, and Professor Snape, who had acted like he cared last year but wouldn’t do a thing except glare at Harry now.  
  
 _Everyone leaves. Everyone walks away from you. You’ll just have to get used to it.  
  
Concentrate on the here and now. Don’t let yourself feel it._  
  
Harry turned back to Hermione. “Not well. Show me?”  
  
*  
  
Draco finally caught up with Harry after dinner the next day. Harry had tried to have another fruitless conversation with the Weasel and was standing still in the middle of the entrance hall, watching his friend’s receding back as though someone had just taken the last serving of treacle tart he wanted. Draco rolled his eyes, but put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. _I don’t have to show him I’m upset. Sometimes Professor Snape’s lessons are good for something._  
  
Harry looked at him, and smiled when he saw him, which wasn’t the ecstatic expression Draco had pictured, but he’d live with it. “Hi,” he said, and started walking towards the dungeons. Even though he no longer went to Professor Snape for “detentions,” he seemed to assume Draco would feel safer down there than in the library or the public corridors. “You look excited. What happened?”  
  
“I discovered what the First Task is,” Draco said, deliberately keeping his voice low. Some Hufflepuffs were passing by, wearing Blaise’s “Potter Stinks” badges. Draco scowled. He would have to ask Blaise what his problem was. It wasn’t like he had Draco’s old reasons to resent Harry.  
  
Harry immediately turned and stared at him. Draco smiled. He could read admiration in those wide eyes and parted lips. _Snape is wrong_ , he thought comfortably. _He already depends on me, and I’m the one who leads the way in a thing like this, because he won’t do what needs to be done._  
  
“You did?” Harry whispered. “How?”  
  
“I sneaked out to the field where they were keeping the beasts for the Task, of course,” Draco said. “And I knew it was beasts of some kind because I read and listen, unlike some people.”  
  
Harry smiled, but the look of admiration in his face didn’t dim. In fact, Draco thought, it grew brighter. Harry probably thought he was brave for sneaking out like that and venturing into an unknown danger. Draco felt a warm glow of contentment spread through him. This was what he had wanted, and what Professor Snape had assumed he would never get, just from the way he talked. Harry admired bravery. Well, Draco knew how to be brave.  
  
“So what were they?” Harry prompted.  
  
From the expression on his face, Draco had probably stood around preening himself for too long. Well, he could make up for that with his news, which was hardly the kind that Harry could have anticipated. “Dragons.”  
  
Harry’s face went pale. “You can’t tame dragons,” he whispered. “And I don’t know the seventh-year Transfiguration or Charms.”  
  
Draco was at least relieved to see that he recognized the dangers. He looked around, saw the same group of Hufflepuffs not too far away from them, and grabbed Harry by the arm. “Come with me. I know a place we can talk privately.”  
  
Harry followed him without protesting at all. Draco felt a small thrill creep up his back as they pelted through the corridors, twisting and turning away from both the Slytherin common room and Snape’s office, and finally ending up in a deserted storeroom that he’d discovered during his first year. He’d always dreamed of this, when he was a boy and before he came to Hogwarts: sharing secrets with the Boy-Who-Lived. He was just glad that Weasley had been so stupid, because otherwise he didn’t think he’d have had this chance.  
  
The storeroom was wide and without windows, but free of dust, because Draco had cast self-renewing cleaning charms. He’d also brought a table and chairs down with him one by one, first looking around Hogwarts for old furniture that no one was using—there was always some—and then mastering Levitation and Feather-Light Charms. Harry sat down on one particular large chair behind the table with a look of rapture on his face.  
  
“It’s like we’re _planning_ things,” he said.  
  
“Well, we are,” Draco said, and took the chair across from him. “All right. How are you going to defeat the dragons?”  
  
Harry scowled and drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t know. I’m _really_ not good at seventh-year spells. Shite, I’m not even good at fourth-year spells. Hermione and I were practicing Summoning Charms earlier today—” He stopped in the way that Draco knew meant he was considering mentioning the Weasel, but a moment later he went on. “And I’m not good at them.”  
  
“Well,” Draco said, “pick something you are good at.”  
  
“Quidditch,” Harry said at once, and then laughed with Draco, who had chuckled just because of the quickness of the answer. “And Defense Against the Dark Arts. But dragons aren’t really Dark Arts, are they? Defense won’t work against them the way it’ll work against curses.”  
  
Draco hesitated. Then he said quietly, “You still know the spells Professor Snape taught you.”  
  
Harry gave him an incredulous look, and drawled, “And I’m just going to use Dark Arts in front of the other students and the judges and so on? I don’t think so. It’d be like proclaiming myself a Death Eater.”  
  
Draco blushed, and said, “Well, all right. Then we need to figure out how to use fourth-year spells. And Quidditch.”  
  
“And Quidditch,” Harry said, and sighed loudly, drumming his fingers on the table again. “If I could figure out some way to use my broom—but I already asked McGonagall, and she said that you aren’t allowed to take anything onto the field with you but your wand. The same thing’ll happen in the Second and Third Tasks.”  
  
“That rules out a potion, too,” Draco said. “Not that there are many of those which affect dragons—”  
  
And then he had an insight so brilliant that it made his mouth hang open.  
  
“Draco?” Harry waved a hand in front of his face, sounding worried. “Did something happen? Are you all right?”  
  
“I’m smart, that’s all,” Draco said, trying to pretend that he wasn’t as stunned as he felt. That was the best way to impress Harry, if he could say it casually. “You’re sure you can perform any magic on the field? Anything at all?”  
  
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I already told you, Draco, I’m _not_ using Dark Arts.”  
  
“But any legal magic?”  
  
“Yeah. Why?” Harry regarded him warily now. “It’s not as though legal magic is all that spectacular. At least not the kind I know. Or most of the kind I know, and I don’t think dragons would be scared of a Patronus.”  
  
They shared a smile, and Draco knew they were both thinking about the Dementors that had been scared away last year. Of course, Harry’s smile faltered, and he was probably thinking about Professor Snape and how the git had abandoned him. So Draco spoke more quickly than he meant to, but still casually. “I just thought that, if you got good at the Summoning Charm, then you could Summon your broom onto the field and fly it at the dragon. You know, not breaking the rules, but doing something you’re really good at. That’s all.” He shrugged modestly.  
  
It was worth everything he’d endured until that point, to see Harry’s eyes open wide in wonder and his hands dart across the table and grab Draco’s.   
  
“Draco, you are a _genius_.”  
  
“Well,” Draco said, and ducked his head as he shrugged again, “you could call me clever, and I wouldn’t complain.”  
  
*  
  
Severus leaned forwards slightly when he saw Potter step onto the field to face the dragons. Altogether, the other students had not done badly; their solutions were not always the ones Severus would have chosen, but they were clever and skillful, and Severus could not call himself an expert on battling dragons.  
  
But Potter was different. Too young, too _small_. The way he marched onto the field in his ridiculously large clothes, his wand clutched in his hand as if he planned to stab someone with it, his glasses dangling off his face, Severus half-expected to hear him sniffle and cry out for his mummy at any second.  
  
 _And whose fault is it that she won’t come_?   
  
Severus shifted and drew his sleeve tight across his left arm. Karkaroff looked up at him from a few seats away. Severus ignored him. He did not feel pain in the Dark Mark; it was shame that stabbed him now.  
  
 _But it has no reason to. Yes, Potter has no mother through my fault and not his own, but it was his choice to be in danger now._  
  
Severus looked down and sideways to see how Draco was taking it. Strangely, Draco’s fists were clenched in front of him, and his eyes and cheeks were bright with excitement. Severus stared, then frowned. What in the world afflicted the boy? Had Potter managed to infect one of his best students with glory-fever and destroy Draco’s ability to gain an objective distance from events?  
  
 _I will be angry if that is so._  
  
Potter was facing the Hungarian Horntail, who crouched low over her nest, her tail arcing up behind her. Potter didn’t have the sense to be frightened of the spikes on the tail, of course, or the teeth that clenched and closed dozens of feet above his head, or the streamers of flame curling around her. Instead, he held up his wand and shouted, “ _Accio_ Firebolt!”  
  
The blasted broom came streaking towards Potter from the school. And then Potter threw a leg over it and flew up to oppose the dragon.  
  
Severus could almost hear Draco’s smug chuckle, and then he understood. Of course such an extraordinary tactic would be a Slytherin idea. It was within the rules of the challenge, but only barely. Potter could never have dreamed it up on his own.  
  
 _Except that he is good at breaking rules, the way that he must have been to get his name into the Goblet, and he came up with a clever plan on his own then—one that he did not bother to share with his best friends._  
  
Severus wanted to put his head in his hands. His perceptions of Potter’s intelligence were conflicting with his perceptions of Potter’s love of breaking rules, and he didn’t like it. One of them must be wrong, but he had evidence that they were both right. Which perception should he choose to trust?  
  
And then he forgot about his perceptions for the moment, other than the visual and obvious ones, because Potter _flew_.  
  
He darted around the dragon’s head, in spirals down her neck, through the tail and the hind legs, like a butterfly taunting a cat. Every moment that the dragon raged and swung her head or lashed out with her fire or brought her heavy claws into play, he was not where she expected him to be. Severus stared, stupefied. He had seen the boy on a broom during the Quidditch games, yes, but this was something different again.  
  
From the frustrated edge to the dragon’s roars, he thought she shared his sense of the impossibility of it.  
  
And then Potter sped straight between the dragon’s forelegs as she reared to capture him, and snatched the golden egg, and looped out again, adding a final flourish to the end before he reached the ground that Severus was sure was just for show. He landed, held out the golden egg to the judges, and bowed.  
  
Draco was on his feet first, applauding and cheering. Severus was on his feet, too, though he didn’t realize it until it happened. He saw Weasley run onto the field to embrace Potter, followed by Granger.  
  
Severus did not join the applause, of course. He was not in the mood for that. His heartbeat had finally calmed enough and the tightness gripping his throat receded enough for him to be certain of what he felt.  
  
He was _furious_. And not because his perceptions had been challenged.  
  
He was furious because Potter could have died. Yes, granted that he had to come up with some clever way—or Draco did—to face the dragon, that did not mean he had to have the—the _insouciance_ about it with which he smiled at the judges or answered questions from his best friends. He risked his life brightly, gaily, as if it were good for nothing else.  
  
 _As his past experiences have taught him it is not._  
  
Severus _had_ to do something about that.  
  
At this point, it didn’t matter who had put Potter’s name in the Goblet. What mattered far more was that the boy needed stern guidance, and Severus knew he was the one who was required for the job.  
  
 _No one else will do. No one else has the sense to see who the boy really is, and not simply give him mindless adulation._  
  
*  
  
As soon as he could, Harry slipped away from Ron, Hermione, and the impromptu party in Gryffindor Tower to find Draco.  
  
He still felt the disbelieving triumph he had when he’d landed. He’d got through the First Task, and _survived_. It was wonderful.  
  
But he hadn’t been too busy feeling happy to see the expression on Draco’s face as he watched Ron and Hermione hug Harry.  
  
 _He’s jealous_ , Harry thought, as he trotted through the corridors and down stairs and past classrooms in the direction of the dungeons. He thought he knew where Draco would go to sulk, and he was almost sure he remembered the way there.  
  
 _He thinks that now I have Ron back, I’m going to ignore him. And maybe that would have been true, once. But now, it’s not._  
  
Harry slipped through the door that he remembered, moving as silently as a shadow thanks to the spells Draco had taught him, and found Draco sitting in the chair at the table that Harry had occupied last time, head in his hands. Harry hesitated, then softly cleared his throat.  
  
Draco looked up at him, shocked, and quickly tried to smile, then to sneer. Then he just gave up and looked tired. “What do you want?” he asked. “I thought you’d spend the evening with your friends.”   
  
“That’s what I’m doing,” Harry said easily, and slipped into the chair next to Draco. “The real question is, why didn’t you come to the party in Gryffindor Tower?”  
  
For a moment, Draco just gaped at him. Harry smiled. He looked—well, at that moment, Harry could see why people might have wanted to be friends with Draco even when he wasn’t being nice. He looked normal.  
  
“They would _kill_ me,” Draco said.  
  
“No,” Harry said. “You’re my friend. They’re my friends. We’re on the same side in the war, as you’ve pointed out to me a few times now. I told them you came up with the idea that saved my life. So I’d make them welcome you, and stand at your side and scowl at them until they figured that out.”  
  
“But—” Draco said, and then swallowed. Harry waited patiently, except he swung his heels back and forth under the table a little.   
  
“But I don’t really want to be with them,” Draco whispered at last. “I just want to be alone with you.”  
  
“That’s fine,” Harry said. “I like spending time with you alone, too.” He had to pause, then, because Draco looked happy at his words in a way Harry had never known any words from _him_ could make someone happy. He cleared his throat and started again, a little awkwardly. “But I thought you should know that things won’t change between us just because I have Ron back again, and you’re welcome at the party if you want to be.”  
  
“I don’t want to talk about that now,” Draco said impatiently, and made a motion as if he were clearing dishes off the table. “I want to talk about your maneuver when you went around the dragon’s tail. What were you _thinking_? That was supposed to be a Wronski Feint? Please. That looked more like—”  
  
Harry grinned happily, and sat back to enjoy a conversation with his friend.  
  
*  
  
Severus was waiting for Potter when he emerged from the dungeons. He had seen him pass earlier, but, thinking that Draco might need some time with the boy, he had refrained from interrupting. Now Potter froze when he saw him, and looked as if he were debating what the correct response was. At last he put his head up and said, “Professor Snape. I was just heading back to the Tower before the curfew, sir.”  
  
“I understand that,” Severus said. “What I wish to know is why you did not come back to me to resume your lessons weeks ago.”  
  
Potter pushed his glasses up his nose. His face was carefully blank, in a way that reminded Severus of the apathy he had adopted after Finnigan attacked him. “You seemed angry at me,” he said. “And Draco told me that you thought I put my own name in the Goblet. So I didn’t see the point.”  
  
“I can teach you even when I am angry,” Severus pointed out.  
  
“No, you can’t,” Potter said. “Sometimes I learn things on the days when you’re calm, but when you’re angry, all you ever do is make sarcastic remarks and refuse to clarify the things that we ask you about.”  
  
Severus subdued the rising anger with the ease of long practice. _The boy must still trust me, or he would respond with careful politeness, as he did during the incident two years ago, and not with impudence._  
  
“I am…not as angry now,” he said. “Things have changed. Come to my office, and we will resume your lessons in potions and Defense.”  
  
Potter considered him with open skepticism for long moments. Severus forced himself to endure the gaze, though he hated that a student should so easily get away with being disrespectful in front of a professor.  
  
Finally, Potter nodded and said, “All right, sir. Seven at night, as we were doing?”  
  
And Severus realized, from the cynical resignation in the back of Potter’s eyes, that he didn’t expect any explanation. He was used to adults doing unpredictable things. He would accept this as just one more instance of that, and in the meantime try to take advantage of the training whilst it lasted.  
  
Severus opened his mouth to explain about the way his mind had changed when he saw Potter near the dragon.  
  
And could not.  
  
In the end, he curtly nodded, turned, and swept off down the corridor, telling himself that he had already done more than Potter could have expected by allowing him back into the lessons.  
  
 _Some secrets are never meant to be shared._  
  
*  
  
Draco hesitated for a long time before he wrote the letter.  
  
But Professor Snape’s taunting words still lingered in the back of his head, and he knew that he had to do something about them, or he would go mad.  
  
So he wrote the first real request that he had ever made of Harry, without giving something immediately in return, and without giving the reason. In fact, Harry could think it was for the _wrong_ reason, and probably would, but so long as he did it, Draco didn’t really care.  
  
 _Please don’t take Cho Chang to the Yule Ball.  
  
Draco._  
  
He took it to the Owlery and sent it flying with a school owl. Then he gave up the point of the anonymity by watching it go, lingering and staring out the window until the bird had circled past Ravenclaw Tower.  
  
 _There_ , he thought, as he turned away to go back to the common room again. _Now Professor Snape can’t say I’m not asking for things and getting as good as I give._


	12. Pain

  
“That is not an option, Mr. Potter.” Harry wasn’t sure, but he thought Professor McGonagall’s cheeks were a little pink. Of course, they had been arguing about this for twenty minutes now, and he probably looked the same way. At least _he_ wasn’t trying to pretend he wasn’t angry. “All the Champions must attend the Yule Ball. Remaining within your rooms would send the wrong message to the other students.”  
  
Harry stared at her. “What message? Because the one that says I don’t know how to dance is the _truth_.”  
  
McGonagall flushed again and scowled at him. It occurred to Harry that she’d been less certain of how to deal with him ever since he’d become friends with Draco. He hid a grin. His Head of House really wouldn’t understand if he showed it right now.  
  
“The Goblet of Fire marked you out as a leader among your schoolmates,” she said now, as if this were an unanswerable argument. “Along with Mr. Diggory and Miss Delacour and Mr. Krum, of course. You must attend the Ball and perform the first dance.”  
  
“I already was a leader,” Harry said. “It’s bloody uncomfortable—”  
  
“Language, Mr. Potter!”  
  
Harry ducked his head, mostly so that he could roll his eyes in peace and not have her notice. “Sorry,” he muttered.  
  
McGonagall glared at his hair. Then he heard her sigh and say, “You only _need_ to attend the one dance, Mr. Potter. But you will attend the dance.”  
  
Harry tapped his fingers against his leg in agitation. He had hoped to be able to fulfill Draco’s request to not take Cho to the Yule Ball by simply not going to the Ball. Then Draco could take Cho as his date—which was obviously what he wanted—at least if she didn’t have a date already, which seemed unlikely to Harry. Harry didn’t really care about the Ball. He didn’t think he’d have a good time no matter who he took. But McGonagall wasn’t cooperating.  
  
On the other hand, just giving in and asking Cho would betray Draco. Harry didn’t like the thought of Draco dancing with Cho, but he was a friend, and Harry owed him anyway, for thinking up that wonderful trick to beat the dragon.  
  
So he looked up and said, “All right, I’ll come to the Ball. But I won’t have a partner.”  
  
“You must, to dance—”   
  
She sounded completely condescending, so much like Snape that Harry lost his temper. “I didn’t think there was a law against dancing by yourself,” he snarled.  
  
“ _Mister_ Potter.”  
  
“No.” Harry leaned forwards and glared at her. “Either you let me come alone, or I come with a partner and make a big mess.”  
  
McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “I do not enjoy being threatened, Mr. Potter.”  
  
“That’s not a threat,” Harry said, “it’s a prophecy.”  
  
There was some more glaring. McGonagall seemed to think he would give in if she just waited long enough. Harry stared stubbornly back. At last his Head of House sighed and adopted that disappointed look that usually hurt Harry worse than yelling. This time, though, he was too satisfied that he’d get to keep his promise to Draco and get out of asking someone other than Cho, which would be completely stupid.  
  
“Very well, Mr. Potter. Since you are so determined to have your own way, you may attend the Ball by yourself.”  
  
“Thank you,” Harry said, coldly enough that she wouldn’t think he was really grateful, and left to write to Draco.  
  
*  
  
Draco pulled on his dress robes, scowled into the mirror, and adjusted the cuffs. He was going to the Yule Ball, and he didn’t have a date. Pansy had wanted to go with him, and Draco’s father had sent a letter suggesting diplomatically that it might be good to keep up appearances with her, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to do it. He would attend by himself or not at all.  
  
But he was resentful and slow about getting ready, even though he didn’t know why. After all, Harry had granted his request, and he hadn’t even fussed at Draco about it. He had just grinned a little when Draco asked him and said he didn’t think he wanted to deprive his best friend of a chance.  
  
 _He thinks I like her_ , Draco had realized in outrage. But because he couldn’t describe the real state of his feelings—  
  
 _Just like I can’t describe why I resent going to the Ball like this._  
  
—he couldn’t tell Harry the truth. Harry would want a more coherent explanation. He _deserved_ a more coherent explanation. But Draco didn’t have it in him to give, and he didn’t want Harry to figure that out.  
  
“You’re not taking Pansy?” Blaise asked from behind him, in surprise. “She was bragging all week how she was going to go with you.”  
  
“Yes, well, Pansy’s overconfident sometimes,” said Draco, and turned around. Blaise was wearing brilliant red dress robes that of course looked good on him. His mother sent him fashion advice, Draco was certain, and she had somehow managed to snare eight husbands, so she must know _something_. “And I wanted to ask you,” he added, as his memory caught up with the moment. “Why were you making those ‘Potter Stinks’ badges? I didn’t know he’d annoyed you badly enough.”  
  
Blaise blinked. “I didn’t make them. I just distributed them because I thought they were funny.”  
  
“Well, who made them, then?” Draco demanded.  
  
Blaise looked suspicious for a moment, but then seemed to decide that Draco wanted one of his own. He grinned and leaned closer to murmur, “Finnigan! In his own Tower! Isn’t that funny?”  
  
 _That tosser_? Draco had of course noticed that Finnigan stayed out of Harry’s way and glared at him every chance he got, but he hadn’t realized their feud was still ongoing. Harry hadn’t used Parseltongue in two years, what more did Finnigan want?   
  
_Probably for him to leave Gryffindor Tower and the school altogether_.   
  
Draco shrugged and let Blaise see his lack of interest as they walked towards the door. “All right,” he said. “I wanted to know how you were making them and never letting me see you. I didn’t think you knew spells like that.”  
  
Blaise struggled, Draco saw, between the urge to accept the compliment and the fact that he’d already told Draco the truth. At least that distracted him sufficiently from the mention of Finnigan and Pansy to let Draco walk down to the Great Hall in peace.  
  
*  
  
Harry kept his head up as he danced through the first dance by himself. He knew he was blushing, but he would be embarrassed no matter what happened, and so he might as well be embarrassed in a good cause. And he really didn’t know what in the world he would have done if there was a girl hanging off his arm the way Cho hung off Cedric’s.  
  
That hurt, a little, to see that she’d come with Cedric. But Harry couldn’t resent Cedric for it. He was too _nice_. And he caught Harry’s eye as they turned around each other in the waltz, or the kick, or the tango, or whatever it was, and grinned in approval. Harry smiled back and then counted the minutes until the end of the dance.  
  
It was only five minutes, thank God. Harry looked around for Draco, and found him standing near the food table, his arms folded and his back stiff. Harry grinned slightly. He would have hesitated to approach Draco when he looked like that last year. Now, he knew him well enough to see the little cracks in the mask, what the tightness that stretched his cheeks out and widened his eyes really meant. Draco was lonely, and he hated being lonely, and he hated the thought that someone might guess he was lonely, so he stood off by himself and looked stern and full of splendid isolation instead. Having briefly seen Lucius Malfoy, Harry thought he knew who Draco was trying to imitate.  
  
He stepped up to him and nodded at Draco as if they had made an appointment to meet here. The way Draco’s face brightened when he saw him made Harry feel glad for the first time all evening. Hermione had tried to argue him into taking Ginny as his partner in the Ball, and Ron had said that Harry would look stupid dancing by himself and he ought to take anyone who would have him. He seemed to think Harry going alone had something to do with Draco, too, and Harry had been first irritated and then astonished by the depth of Ron’s insight.  
  
He and Ron were best friends again, but that didn’t mean Harry was about to abandon Draco.  
  
“Hullo,” Harry said, and picked up a small sandwich from the food table and bit into it. It was ham, and tasted delicious. _Why couldn’t they just invite everyone to the Great Hall to eat good food for a night, instead of making people dance_? “Are you hungry?” he added, and picked up another little sandwich for Draco.  
  
*  
  
Draco found his breath unexpectedly quick when he took the sandwich from Harry’s hand. And then Harry was grinning at him as if asking why he was breathing that way, and Draco could laugh and eat the sandwich, and then join in the conversation.  
  
“Why did you dance by yourself?” he asked. “Why not just hide in your room?” He was glad that Harry _hadn’t_ just hidden in his room, but the last thing he’d expected was Harry waltzing by himself, not looking at people as he did it, as if that meant the people wouldn’t exist. Draco had seen Lucius do that, too, but Harry did it better than his father.  
  
“I tried,” Harry said gloomily, “but McGonagall wouldn’t let me. She said all the Champions had to lead the first dance.” Suddenly he grinned, and Draco almost choked on his sandwich, and didn’t know why. The smile was probably just too quick, that was all, he told himself. He was used to his mother’s slow, pleased half-smiles and his father’s smirks. “So I told her I could come without a partner and just dance the one dance and then sit aside, or come with one and make so much noise and mess she’d never forget it.”  
  
“You _threatened_ her?” Draco was torn between gaping and laughing.  
  
“It wasn’t a threat,” Harry said, in such self-satisfied tones that Draco knew he must have used the same words to Professor McGonagall, “it was a prophecy.”  
  
The rest of the evening blurred in a way that Draco had never imagined it could. Of course, he only had his parents’ parties for comparison to the Yule Ball, and those were always boring affairs, overcrowded with adults and girls his own age who wanted to giggle madly and boys younger than he was who still thought it was important to prove who could sting each other with sparks. Well, and Vincent and Greg, but they were hardly decent conversationalists.  
  
Harry and Draco talked about Quidditch, brooms, Harry’s godfather—still in South America, it appeared, and Harry wasn’t anxious for him to get back, because that would mean more people hunting him in Britain—what it was like to live with the Durmstrang students, the latest Astronomy exam that almost everyone in the class had managed to fail, and what the Second Task was likely to be. Harry knew it had something to do with the golden dragon’s egg he’d retrieved during the First Task, which was hinged and opened, but which only produced a horrible screeching sound when that happened. Draco suggested that he could listen to the sound and give Harry his opinion about what kind of horrible fate was awaiting him in the Second Task.   
  
That earned him a swat on the back of the head and a smile. The swat wasn’t worth anything, Draco knew; it didn’t even sting. The smile was worth everything.  
  
And he still didn’t know _why_ , anymore than he knew why he hadn’t wanted Harry to bring Chang to the Ball, or why seeing Harry come by himself was—satisfying, but not as good as he’d expected it to be. Draco didn’t know what was wrong with him.  
  
No matter what he didn’t know, though, he couldn’t possibly be as blind as Professor Snape, who spent every moment he wasn’t stalking about the rose gardens and blasting snogging couples out of the bushes glaring steadily at Harry. Once, Harry looked up and caught his eye. At once, his face stiffened the way Draco had tried to make his own face when he saw Harry first come in, and he looked away.  
  
“Are you not getting on with Professor Snape?” Draco asked; their speculations about the egg had dried up.  
  
“Yes,” Harry said, and looked startled at the question. He pushed his glasses up his nose, which Draco had come to recognize as a sign of thoughtfulness, with him (and thus rare). “We have lessons just like we always did, and I’m improving in Potions. A bit,” he had the honesty to add when Draco glanced at him.  
  
Draco hummed under his breath and said nothing more. Harry thought training was enough. He thought lessons were enough.  
  
Snape had said he would die for Harry, and in a way, it was ungrateful of Harry to forget that.  
  
On the other hand, what in the world could he be expected to do, if Snape said one thing and did another?  
  
*  
  
Severus let out a long, patient breath. He had, for the moment, escaped from the section of his office where Potter stood struggling with various water plants to try and create a Purifying Potion, and stood among the shelves filled with vials, corks, pipes, and ordinary healing potions of various kinds and colors and substances.   
  
He had been trying, all evening, to hint to Potter what the Second Task must be like. Severus had watched closely, and had managed to be present at one of the times that Potter gingerly opened his golden egg. He had recognized the garbled screeching at once. It was the language of the merfolk. Severus had been present a few times when Dumbledore went down to the lake to negotiate a new treaty with them. Dumbledore had insisted he come to “learn something about the operations of peace and justice.”  
  
The boy didn’t know this. It didn’t seem to have occurred to him to try submerging the egg in water. And of course he was hopeless at spying on the other Champions, and Draco’s efforts to strike up casual conversations with Krum in which he could pry details out of him didn’t work.  
  
Severus had decided that the best way to hint the truth to Potter was through his potions lessons. They had been working on common poisons and antidotes until this point, and then Severus had abruptly introduced him to potions that protected the skin when one was swimming for a long period of time and the Purifying Potion, which was meant to make salt water fresh. Potter should have been suspicious of the change of emphasis and begun to wonder what Severus was trying to tell him. But he had accepted the change without a murmur.  
  
 _How stupid is the boy_? Severus had long since thought that Potter simply did not apply himself in Potions, but Potter passed the exacting Defense Against the Dark Arts sessions with Moody this year easily, and he had certainly managed to produce a corporeal Patronus with training and encouragement, which was harder than any number of potions. He did well even in Transfiguration and Charms, the bane of students who were lazy or looked too much for shortcuts (though Severus suspected Granger helped him there). He had failed his last Astronomy exam, but so had much of the class; Sinistra had shamefacedly admitted that she had made the exam far too hard out of her anger at breaking one of her better telescopes. And Potter had instincts, as could be seen in the way that he flew that broom and juggled both Draco and his friends. He had the right ingredients to succeed in Severus’s class as well as notice more of what was going on about him, the way that the Triwizard Tournament demanded so that one might survive it.  
  
But he did not do it.  
  
 _Perhaps you are coddling him too much. Perhaps you should be sharp again, and force him to defend himself._  
  
Severus sighed. No. He already knew that tactic would not work, and he was disgusted with himself for suggesting it. Potter had made a permanent change for the worse in that direction after Finnigan burned his possessions. When confronting pointed enough insults, he simply retreated into his damned isolation and waited out the attacker with a blank face and muted emotions. He would do it again if Severus tried insults again, and in the meantime, he would refuse to learn, as he so desperately needed to.  
  
So he could not use the strategy that would make him the most comfortable, and he was not about to spoon-feed the brat the answers. What to do?  
  
Severus turned around to go back into the main part of the office—it was never a good idea to leave Potter alone too long with a boiling cauldron, although the Purifying Potion had no poisonous or explosive ingredients—and paused when he saw a clump of a small plant just above his eye. _Gillyweed. Which allows one to breathe underwater, and which Potter will surely need when the Second Task comes, because Merlin knows he could not manage the Bubble-Head Charm or the correct Transfiguration at this time._  
  
Severus took the gillyweed and carried it back into the main part of the office. Potter looked up at him apprehensively for a moment before he closed his expression off. Severus found himself unexpectedly irritated. Yes, it was a good thing that Potter was learning to control his volatile emotions, but why in the name of sanity did he have to do it so often in front of Severus? One would think Severus had made enough sacrifices to earn a bit of trust by now.  
  
“Potter,” said Severus, and dropped the gillyweed on the table in front of the boy. “Study this. I want a four-inch essay on it within the week.”  
  
Potter peered at the weed with a doubtful expression. “What is it, sir?”  
  
 _Sir_. The boy had gone back to titles again. Of course, he hadn’t ever really stopped since they had resumed the lessons. _He calls Black by his name, I am certain_ , Severus thought, and a corrosive blast of something like jealousy rolled through him.  
  
“That is for you to find out, of course,” Severus said, and when he saw the overwhelmed expression on the boy’s face, he relaxed enough to add, as a great concession, “It is a water plant, like the others you have been studying.”  
  
“Thank you, sir,” said the boy, and put the gillyweed in a corked vial that had been lying beside the cauldron. At least Severus had trained him well enough that he no longer simply stuffed delicate potions ingredients directly into his pocket.  
  
The caution, the thanks—they would have to do for now. Severus was only glad that Black was not present this year. He would have won Potter’s heart without struggle, at least as long as there was this odd barrier between Severus and the brat.  
  
*  
  
Harry drew his wand as he stepped into the bedroom. First, no one except Seamus was there. Second, Seamus was waving his wand at Harry’s trunk with a frown of concentration on his face.  
  
“Did you think you’d burn my clothes this time?” Harry snapped.  
  
Seamus jumped and spun around to face him. Harry hated the expression on his face. It was full of fear and hatred. Voldemort might look like that; Tom Riddle had looked like that when he realized Harry was killing the diary. But someone who was a Gryffindor and Harry’s age shouldn’t look like that.  
  
“You shouldn’t be here,” said Seamus. He was speaking so low that Harry almost thought he heard a growl in his voice. “Just—just ¬ _leave_ Gryffindor Tower the way I tried to banish you.”  
  
“I’m not a ghost,” Harry said, edging towards his trunk. He still would have felt more comfortable if someone else was here, but at least Seamus backed up. “And I’m not a vampire. I’m me, Harry, and you won’t touch my things again.” He cast a quick glance at the trunk, and was reassured that the sparking barrier of wards and protective charms still hovered over it. Still, he would have to get Draco or Ron to teach him some more. He thought for a moment of asking Snape, but dismissed the idea. Snape would probably be happy if Harry’s Firebolt burned, because that way he couldn’t compete against Slytherin next year.  
  
“You’re a Parselmouth,” said Seamus. “That’s bad enough.” He didn’t cower in front of Harry this time, the way he always did when there were others around to see. He stood up straight instead and stared at Harry intently. Harry wasn’t frightened, but he didn’t like it. “You shouldn’t be here,” he repeated.  
  
“Oh, that’s a nice thing for people like you to say,” Harry snapped.  
  
“People like me?”  
  
This time, the expression on Seamus’s face was so ugly that Harry took a step back. But he thought the fear had increased more than the hatred. Then he told himself not to be silly. He couldn’t read emotions as deeply as that. _Being around a Slytherin is a bad influence on me._   
  
“People who burn each other’s things,” Harry said, taking a firmer grip on the wand. “People who try to drive someone else out of the only place they’ve ever felt at home.”  
  
Seamus relaxed, and then took a deep breath and said, “Someday you’ll go too far and do something you regret, and then everyone will know what kind of person you _really_ are,” before he ran out the door.  
  
Harry sat down on the bed and shook his head, perplexed. That was _weird_. Seamus had some kind of grudge that his spell hadn’t worked? Why should he be that surprised? And why was he still after Harry’s possessions two years later?  
  
After some thought, Harry took the map out of his trunk and tucked it into his pocket. He was going to carry it around with him from now on. If someone burned it—  
  
Well, he couldn’t bear it, that was all, and he wouldn’t let it happen.  
  
Then he grabbed his Firebolt and flew out the window. He was going to hide it somewhere no one would think to look for it: on the top of the Owlery, which you couldn’t reach unless you climbed out one of the windows and then around the difficult, curving dome of the tower. Harry could always Summon it if he needed it.  
  
He circled high over the grounds, watching them gleam under the wash of a heavy snow and the dim February sun. The lake flashed dazzlingly, and Harry cursed and lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the glare.  
  
The lake. The weed Snape had given him the other day, which had turned out to be gillyweed that let people breathe underwater. The sudden way he’d had Harry making potions that had to do with the sea and so on.  
  
The material came together in Harry’s head the way it sometimes—rarely—did before Potions quizzes, and he laughed aloud. At least he knew where to go for the Second Task, now.  
  
He was so happy that he decided, as he climbed down from the top of the Owlery, briefly hanging by one hand over a steep drop as the stone wobbled beneath him, that he wouldn’t tell Draco about Seamus. That would only lead to Draco worrying.  
  
 _And I don’t think he needs to know about my climb, either_ , Harry thought, as he faltered, slipped, and slid into the Owlery window just in time. _He’s a great friend, Merlin knows, but he spends too much time worrying. He needs someone to worry about him, too._  
  
*  
  
Draco had wondered why he was summoned to Dumbledore’s office so late at night. Perhaps the Headmaster knew he had been receiving letters regularly from his father, each time offering some new and more important bit of news. The latest one said to beware of Karkaroff, whom Lucius thought was involved in more Dark Arts than would be safe for Draco to practice in public.   
  
Draco imagined Dumbledore asking him to become a spy, the way that Snape had half-admitted now he had been among the Death Eaters. The thought made Draco puff up with importance. It was one thing to try and find information for Harry because Harry was his friend, but this would be different. Important. _Special_.  
  
He stood in Dumbledore’s office with a girl from Ravenclaw that he knew slightly—Krum had taken her to the Yule Ball—a small silver-haired girl who looked rather like Fleur Delacour, and, of all people, Cho Chang. Draco cast her one incredulous glance and then ignored her, but already his dreams had vanished. He knew he hadn’t been called here to be a spy, not if _she_ was here.  
  
Dumbledore surveyed all of them slowly out of bright eyes through his glasses. He looked tired and grim. He spent a lot of time looking at Draco, and then shook his head and turned away with a small shrug.  
  
“You are here to become part of the Second Task,” he said.  
  
Draco’s breath caught, and some of his dreams revived.  
  
“The Champions will need to dive into the lake to rescue the person most important to them,” Dumbledore continued, and picked up a bottle of sparkling crystal. The potion within it shifted around and shone like crystal itself, and Draco recognized it: a powerful Protective Potion. It could allow someone to survive breathing smoke for long periods of time, or wading barefoot through lava. “We will use a potion to protect you from the effects of the water and the merfolk’s handling.” He smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid that you’ll spend most of the time asleep, so as to increase the efficacy of the potion, and so won’t get to see much of the Task. But I promise, you won’t be in any danger, and you’ll be brought back to the surface soon after sunrise tomorrow morning—either by the Champion assigned to rescue you, or by someone else if that should not work.” He peered from face to face. “Do you have any questions?”  
  
They all shook their heads, though the little girl who must be Delacour’s sister looked incredibly upset and helpless and Draco felt sorry for her. Then Dumbledore gave them each a dose of the Protective Potion—first to Chang, who volunteered—and the little girl looked reassured when Chang went on breathing as normal.  
  
Draco enjoyed his own dose of the Protective Potion. It went down his throat like water turned to sunlight and filled his mouth with a sweet and shining taste.   
  
Dumbledore waved his wand, and the three girls fell to the floor, deeply asleep and snoring like lions. The Protective Potion kept them from taking any bruises as they fell, but Draco still thought that Dumbledore could have arranged a cushion for them.  
  
Then he realized Dumbledore hadn’t put him to sleep yet, and stared at the Headmaster. Dumbledore was once again peering at him the way he had when Draco first stepped into the room, his expression very grave.  
  
“Mr. Malfoy,” he said. “I must confess that I did not expect to see you here. I was certain that Mr. Weasley or Miss Granger would be the person Mr. Potter valued the most.”  
  
Draco swallowed. He didn’t have words prepared, because he hadn’t expected this at all, but he had to say something. “Well, they aren’t,” he said. “And unless you’re going to kick me out now and summon Weasley—”  
  
“Oh, no,” Dumbledore said, almost sadly. “The spell we used to determine the person each Champion valued was very specific.” He hesitated, then said, “You may wish to reconsider your association with Mr. Potter in the light of what happens after the Tournament.”  
  
“What happens after the Tournament?” Draco thought he managed to make it into a good question and not simply parrot Dumbledore.  
  
“Harry will undoubtedly receive even more attention,” Dumbledore said. “Not always from the people he values.”  
  
“I’m already aware of that,” Draco said, as calmly as he could. “And prepared.”  
  
“Oh, child,” Dumbledore whispered, his face haunted. “No one who has not seen war can know what it is like.”  
  
“I think I know better than Harry,” said Draco. “And I want to be there. I want to protect him.”  
  
“You are the son of his enemy,” Dumbledore said quietly. “The heir of a very different world from the one Harry inhabits. I ask you to reconsider your association not solely for your safety, but for Harry’s, and for what you stand to lose if you walk at his side.”  
  
“You can’t frighten me,” said Draco. “So sod off.”  
  
The Headmaster sighed, and cast the sleeping spell. Draco was grateful he didn’t have to feel himself slump to the floor in an undignified manner.  
  
*  
  
Harry dived smoothly into the water, still munching on the last of the gillyweed. He shivered and gasped for a moment as the gills on his neck opened up, but then he could plunge his head under the water and sink, his lighted wand leading the way.  
  
The murky green-brown water swirled around him, trying to blind him. Harry kept searching through the muck for a glimpse of people. He didn’t know exactly who or what he’d come down here to find, but at the very least, he knew the other Champions would be after it.  
  
He shivered and cast an absent Warming Charm, and then the first merman darted in front of him.  
  
Harry pulled up, staring. Two mermaids swam behind the merman, looking at him with large eyes that reminded Harry uncomfortably of the way Seamus had looked at him when he came into the room last week. But they were only distractions, he reminded himself, and so he curled his knees up to his chest and spun towards them.  
  
They reached out to stop him. Harry pulled up at the last moment and stroked backwards and up, avoiding them the way he would Bludgers at a Quidditch game.   
  
He quickly discovered that they could move more quickly than Bludgers, whilst he wasn’t used to the way the water clung to his limbs and slowed him down. He cast a curse that Snape had taught him, a mild stinging hex, which here manifested as a jet of hot water that scalded one of the mermaids. She fell back, wailing, but two more came to take her place.  
  
Harry caught a glimpse of someone swimming in the background, someone so large and wide-shouldered that it had to be Krum. He frowned impatiently and decided that he didn’t have time to hang around like this battling merfolk. So he chanted a spell that Sirius and Remus had taught him last year and said they’d used against bullies when they were in Hogwarts. (Only after he’d overheard the conversation between Snape and Sirius had Harry realized that they’d probably meant Snape).  
  
Copies of himself began to appear around him, complete illusions, first one on either side, then two, and then four and sixteen and thirty-two, budding not only off him but from the copies of the copies. They would retain some solidity and warmth for a minute or so after they were grabbed, which meant the merfolk couldn’t decide who the real one was easily. Harry ducked past their confused cries and swam on down towards the bottom of the lake.   
  
Four people were bound with long, twisted ropes of seaweed to pillars sunk into the lake mud. Harry saw two people he didn’t know, Cho with her long hair drifting in the current around her—  
  
And Draco.  
  
Harry caught his breath, and then felt indignation grow in him. Draco’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t appear to be in any pain, but _still_. He would hate to be in a position like this that made him so—so passive. He would enjoy being awake and the center of attention, Harry knew, but not like this.  
  
 _Dumbledore should have asked him if he wanted to participate_ , he thought, and cast a curse that slashed through the seaweed ropes. It was really meant for slicing human flesh, but Harry had seen Snape use it on potions ingredients. It worked this time as well as it ever had, and Harry grabbed Draco around the waist and turned to face the surface again.  
  
Then he discovered the merfolk drifting in front of them again, their mouths open to show teeth that Harry reckoned could be dangerous. Hagrid had never had them study merfolk in Care of Magical Creatures. Harry was beginning to wish he had.  
  
 _Care of Magical Creatures._   
  
That gave Harry an idea. There was no reason he couldn’t use the same tactics twice in the First and Second Task. He lifted his wand and yelled the Summoning Charm, followed by the name of a creature Hagrid had had them take all too close a look at.  
  
A whoosh, a plop, and then one of Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts was flailing away at the mermaids and mermen. They had no idea what to do, and so they responded by scattering and trying to reform beneath the thing. The Blast-Ended Skrewt, meanwhile, was heading after them with single-minded determination. Perhaps it was made more active in water, or perhaps it liked to eat fish. Harry didn’t know, and had no intention of staying to find out. He hauled Draco to the surface, and managed to throw him onto shore, gasping as his body lurched in one moment from breathing air through the gills to breathing it through the lungs.   
  
Draco at once turned over and spat out a whole stream of lake water. Harry looked around. Krum was surfacing not far from them with one of the strange girls, and Cedric was right behind him, holding Cho. Fleur must still be under the water. Harry felt a moment’s brief regret that he hadn’t been the one to rescue Cho—maybe she would have smiled at him—but then Draco was awake and talking, and Harry had to turn back to him.  
  
“That was fast,” he said. “Or it felt fast.” He blinked and touched his head as if it hurt. “It feels like I wasn’t asleep for long.”  
  
“Why did you let Dumbledore do that to you?” Harry demanded. “It was dangerous—”  
  
“Oh, not really,” said Draco, and stretched, and smiled. He was looking very strangely at Harry, who continued to float in the water, as if he thought he needed to memorize Harry’s face before he disappeared or something. “We had a Protective Potion in us. That kept us from suffering just about anything, including drowning. And the sleeping charm was used to make sure we weren’t uncomfortable.” He reached out and rested a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Anyway, now I can imitate Ginny Weasley and say you’re my hero.”  
  
Harry felt his face heat up. Ginny had been bloody embarrassing about that the first few weeks of last year, though thankfully she’d calmed down.  
  
“I was just rescuing you,” he said. “You needed rescuing.”  
  
“That time,” Draco said, and scowled, and looked more like the Draco Harry knew and was ready to count one of his best friends. “I won’t, always.”  
  
“I know,” Harry said.  
  
“Harry!”  
  
He looked up, and contained a sigh. Ron and Hermione were coming along the lakeshore towards them. Hermione looked worried and determined, Ron grim and determined. Both of them were staring at Draco.  
  
“ _We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss_ ,” Draco muttered, quoting the rhyme from the egg that Harry had finally managed to translate by putting the egg into water. “I reckon they’ll want to know why you sorely missed _me_.”  
  
“And I’ll tell them the truth,” Harry countered, and pulled himself out of the water to face the cheering crowd and his frowning friends.  
  
*  
  
Severus smiled a little and leaned back in his seat, eyes fixed on Draco where he sat and Potter where he stood, apparently giving some unwelcome news to his Gryffindor friends, from the way they gaped at him and then stared at Draco, then gaped at Draco and stared at him.  
  
Potter had taken Severus’s hints. He had utilized the gillyweed for the purpose it was meant for.  
  
Severus _was_ surprised that he had rescued Draco, and not someone else, from the lake water, but he knew Draco would be full of smugness and spirit for the next week, and that, in one way, made it the best thing that could have happened. Potter should begin giving something back for the devotion that Draco had shown him so far.   
  
But Severus could see the situation from another angle. He would have to warn Draco to beware of Lucius.  
  
 _And perhaps of Karkaroff_ , he thought, glancing at the Headmaster of Durmstrang, who didn’t seem to know whether to scowl at his favorite student’s loss—the judges had apparently awarded Potter the top points for the task—or clutch his left arm. _A known Death Eater around the boy…no, I think Lucius is the greater danger, and Karkaroff would avoid going back to the Dark Lord’s service if he could, but still, he is too weak to resist compulsion. It is entirely possible that Lucius would try to use him against Draco._  
  
For some reason, Potter looked up just at that moment, and his eyes met Severus’s. Severus made his face stern. The boy should not look to him for _approval_. He had done well at the Second Task, but this sort of brainless dashing to the rescue would not benefit him much in everyday life, and if he had been a good student, he would have figured out Severus’s hints the first day he started giving them.  
  
Potter glanced down again. Severus was glad of it.  
  
*  
  
Draco could not be more pleased as the school year stretched its wings and sped through March and April. His father was sending him more and more letters, trusting him with more and more secrets.  
  
 _Karkaroff has contacted me. He appears to fear that the Dark Lord is returning rather earlier than expected. I have tried to reassure him, only to receive a letter loaded with vitriol and strange screeds. I believe he may be teetering on the edge of madness. Stay away from him if you can…  
  
Yes, of course I am rather disconcerted that you were Potter’s most precious thing. But we cannot always choose what other people value us, or why; we can only give them encouragement or discouragement, as needed. I would recommend that you stay close to Potter, if he will still have you after that very public rescue. Cultivating his friendship could be useful.  
  
One of Mr. Parkinson’s business concerns is about to go under. I am now more glad than ever that I never contracted a marriage for you with his girl, who, if your reports are anything to go by, has rather inherited his intolerable personality than otherwise.  
  
Yes, from what I have heard, I may say that you will learn something useful from Moody. And a reputation can be deceiving, my son (as your father knows full well). Moody has been known to practice a Darker Art or two in his day. Pay attention to his lessons, and if you have the chance to catch him alone and flatter him enough, perhaps he will let down his guard and teach you something important._  
  
Draco did not think that last was likely to happen, not with Moody’s mantra of “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” But his father thought it was true, and he didn’t mind letting Draco into his innermost thoughts. Yes, Draco’s career as a spy was progressing well.  
  
And, in the meantime, he continued to be Harry’s friend, and even sometimes to associate with the pair of sulky Gryffindors who had replaced the smug Granger and Weasel when Harry told them off for being surprised about the end of the Second Task. Harry mediated between them like a small but determined diplomat, and also ensured that he and Draco regularly got some time alone.  
  
The time alone was sweet to Draco, though it was hard to say why.  
  
The only thing he didn’t have to be happy about was the state of affairs between Harry and Professor Snape, which was more a mess than ever.  
  
*  
  
Harry was exhausted. Oh, his friendship with Draco was going well enough, and he wasn’t as worried about the Third Task as he used to be, and he had even managed a few fragile get-togethers between he, Ron, Hermione, and Draco, where he kept Ron from insulting Draco’s father and Draco from calling Hermione a Mudblood.  
  
But the lessons with Professor Snape were going to kill him.  
  
Snape had increased the lessons from two nights a week to three, and then four. He then insisted that Harry stay longer each time, and he had begun to snap at him during the “detentions” as he did during the classes for making mistakes. Harry had argued that he didn’t have as much time to make the potions as he did during the class. Snape had simply replied that they were all simple potions from years ago, and if he had learned to make them correctly the first time around, this wouldn’t have happened.  
  
And Snape was present one night when a parrot swooped into the dungeons and brought one of Sirius’s notes to Harry. Jumping to conclusions, Harry thought, he snarled, “Is that Black’s parrot?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry said, taking the letter and starting to open it.  
  
“You will read his post _later_.” And Snape actually snarled, his voice so deep and dangerous that Harry thought of Uncle Vernon, and moved into a position where he could better defend himself. Not that Uncle Vernon had ever hit him except for a cuff now and then on the back of the head, but he always looked like he wanted to, and right now Snape looked the same way.  
  
“All right,” Harry said, when some moments passed and Snape just went on staring at him. “I will.” And then he turned back to the table and picked up the stirring rod and the vial of green water Snape had shoved at him this evening. His hands were shaking, but he hoped to hide that by brewing furiously, in accordance with the instructions.  
  
“Not that fast.” Snape stepped up behind him, and Harry flinched again. Snape paused, then reached over Harry’s shoulder and began to move his own stirring rod through the liquid in the cauldron in much calmer circles. Harry took a deep breath and held still. Snape at last pulled the rod back and said, “It must be that way, or you will ruin the potion.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Harry said.  
  
For some reason, the title irritated Snape, and he stalked away towards his potions stores, with no sign of the gentleness he’d shown a moment before. “Return to your brewing,” he said.  
  
Harry bowed his head and continued his work. He didn’t have the option of ending the lessons, because Snape had said he would take points if Harry did, but he already knew he wouldn’t continue the lessons next year. Snape was a _bastard_. He acted like it was a favor that he was teaching Harry at all, even though he had been the one to insist that Harry return to the dungeons. He snarled and snapped at him about mistakes that Harry had seen him explain patiently to Draco in the classroom.  
  
And when Draco was around…  
  
Harry swallowed. He knew it was wrong to be jealous of Draco, even if he _was_ sometimes. Draco didn’t have a good family like Ron, but he got to go home to a big house each summer and eat whatever he wanted. But he was in lots of danger from his father if his father ever found out what he was doing, and he had actually tiptoed around for a few days after the Second Task because he had been afraid of an angry letter. And he had turned against his family to help Harry. He deserved respect.  
  
But when Draco was around, Snape showed that he was capable of calmness and gentleness and patience. He just wanted to show them to a student who wasn’t Harry.  
  
He explained things much more slowly to Draco, and didn’t blame him for not remembering everything the first time. He praised his success with smiles and slightly softer glances of his eyes, and the way he spoke in riddles—well, Draco was able to figure out the compliments hidden in the riddles, which Harry couldn’t do much with. And he was teaching him more interesting things, like the lying and acting and some spells that hovered on the border between Dark Arts and legal magic. Snape had quit the lessons in Dark Arts now and insisted that Harry pay attention only to potions. When Harry protested, he snapped that Harry had to earn the privilege of a duel by doing at least one complicated potion right the first time.  
  
So he was like a godfather to Draco, even though he wasn’t really.  
  
And Harry’s godfather was far away in South America, and Snape snarled at the mere mention of him and punished Harry for getting his letters.  
  
Harry had thought, back sometime last year when Snape defended Sirius against the Dementors and then stood up to him for Harry, that it was possible he could be more than just a pupil to Snape. But that was a stupid thing to think about, and an even stupider thing to hope for.  
  
He had friends, for God’s sake, Harry thought, driving his stirring rod savagely through the potion. Why did he need an adult? They always failed in the end. At least, if Sirius came back towards the end of the year and managed to watch Harry compete in the Third Task, as he was promising to do, Harry would have someone around who loved him for what he was. He couldn’t trust Sirius, not all the way, but it had to be better to be around Sirius’s pranks and careless talk than Snape’s sharp tongue.  
  
“Potter! Do _not_ stir that way!”  
  
 _No matter what I do_ , Harry thought, and he was thinking of Snape and the Dursleys both, _it’s never right._  
  
*  
  
Severus had offered bribes to the boy, in the form of easy potions that he should have had no trouble completing. He had offered help, in the form of the gillyweed (which the boy must have figured out, since he had used it during the Second Task, but for which he had never thanked Severus). He had shown Potter, in the form of Draco, who sometimes attended their lessons and sometimes did not, what a model student should look like.  
  
Potter refused to listen to him, or to respond positively no matter what Severus did. Sullen, stubborn, backwards, he lowered his head and plodded away after the lessons. He never took fire during the brewing as Draco did, as the simplest child in Slytherin often did when he or she bothered to listen to Severus’s explanations. He was focused solely on the Dark Arts and the Defense lessons, and he had reacted like a toddler with a temper tantrum—glares and muttering under his breath—when Severus began to curtail them in favor of concentrating on Potions, which Potter clearly needed more help with.   
  
He wanted his own way. He did not appear to understand that part of being a pupil and a child under the care of an adult was not getting one’s own way all the time.  
  
Severus had begun to compare him unfavorably with Draco in all sorts of matters. Potter was considerably less intelligent, less interested in Severus’s favorite subjects, less forwards in asking questions. He appeared to want to figure things out on his own, even when he could not. He would glare like a scorpion when Severus _asked_ him if he needed help, however.  
  
He took insults too much to heart. He reacted badly to the mildest of mockery. He needed the armor that Draco had grown from living with Lucius. Severus no longer believed the claims of bad treatment that Potter had half made about the Muggles. He was far too sensitive, and he would have managed some better way of coping with verbal and emotional abuse if he had really experienced it.  
  
God knew, Severus had.  
  
And then for him to regard his dogfather’s letters with a shining look in his eyes, as if a man absent for almost a year had done more for him than the Potions Professor who thanklessly gave up his free time to spend with the brat…  
  
It maddened Severus.  
  
And Draco kept looking at him gravely and warning Severus about losing Potter. Severus asked what more he could do.  
  
“Talk to him like you do to me,” was Draco’s infuriating advice.  
  
“He doesn’t deserve that yet,” Severus snarled back.  
  
Draco had given him an incredulous look. Severus understood it, but he could not gratify Draco’s curiosity. The memories of his connection with Lily were too private, the memories of his bullying at the hands of James Potter and Sirius Black too tender.  
  
Severus had been sure that his more sustained attention to the boy would result in a blossoming. He would have given his right arm for someone to have paid more attention to him when he was a student, enough to realize what the problems were that he could not bring himself to tell anyone about.  
  
But Potter presumably didn’t receive the right kind of attention, so he refused to respond.  
  
They were at an impasse, and Severus was sure of one thing: Potter was neither as clever nor as much of a Slytherin as he had thought.  
  
*  
  
“I wanted to show you this, Draco.”  
  
Draco held out his hand automatically, and eagerly, to receive the gift that Professor Moody wanted to give him. Lucius had been right about him. Moody was an excellent teacher, unafraid to show them the Unforgivable Curses.  
  
And if his association with the Dark Arts was more sinister than Lucius had described it…well, Karkaroff had tried to get Draco alone a few times, which Draco had successfully avoided, so his father was right about _that_. And anyway, Draco knew he had Lucius completely fooled. Every letter that arrived revealed more. He had never suspected that Draco had pawed among his letters that day in the library, and Draco’s responses, careful blends of lies and “innocent” questions, had amused and reassured Lucius since.  
  
Professor Moody placed what looked like a twist knot of gold in Draco’s palm. Draco raised an eyebrow. “What’s this, sir?” He kept an unimpressed tone in his words; Moody didn’t mind a bit of insolence, as long as the student who was showing it did well in his class.  
  
Moody looked both directions—they were in the corridor outside his office—and then leaned nearer, lowering his voice. “You and I both know that Harry Potter is the real Hogwarts Champion,” he said.  
  
Draco looked up, eyes narrowed. “I know that,” he said. He figured it was no use denying it; by now, most people realized that Harry and Draco spent quite a bit of time together. “But I thought no one else did. Most of them are supporting Cedric Diggory.”  
  
Moody chuckled, a rusty sound. His magical eye rolled around his head and then came back to orient on Draco. “I support the winning side,” he said. “And who came in first in the Second Task and second in the First? It wasn’t Diggory.”  
  
Draco grinned, but he felt a touch of reserve, still. “So you don’t think he put his name in the Goblet, sir?”  
  
“I know he didn’t.” Moody pronounced the words with great satisfaction, for some reason. Draco wondered if he’d been disputing with Snape on the subject. Snape would certainly have had plenty to say. “Now, this is something that should give Mr. Potter a bit of an advantage.” He nodded to the golden knot. “I know he’s too noble to cheat for himself, but—” He broke off and shrugged elaborately.  
  
Draco found himself grinning more widely.  
  
“This will form a map of the maze that the Third Task comprises as soon as Potter touches it,” Moody whispered. “But it’s timed to become useless fairly soon; I couldn’t risk its being left about and someone else finding out I helped you. Dumbledore, at least, would recognize my magical signature right away. He has two hours to conjure and copy down the map.” Both his eyes were fixed on Draco now. “I would take it to him right away, if I were you.”  
  
Draco turned and ran as fast as he could go. He knew Harry was on the Quidditch pitch right now, practicing with the Weasel for the matches they would play next year. He pounded away from Moody’s classroom, down more flights of stairs than he liked to remember, and out into the May sunlight through the front doors. By then, he was panting, and he thought of what the Weasel would say.  
  
Well, fuck him. He hadn’t done anything to help Harry with the Tasks.  
  
He made out Harry right away, ducking and dodging above him on the broom. Harry saw him and at once made a tight spin down. Draco watched, heart in his throat. He was good on a broom, but Harry was a master.  
  
And now he was doubly nervous about playing Harry in the game between Slytherin and Gryffindor next year. Sure, he’d done it once before, but they hadn’t been friends then, and Harry hadn’t been mounted on a Firebolt.  
  
Harry pulled up a few inches above the ground, grinned at him, and said, “What have you got there?”  
  
Draco hesitated. Harry probably wouldn’t want to use it if Draco told him what it was; he would think that was cheating. But if he saw the map once, he couldn’t unsee it. And Weasel was coming down behind Harry now, eager as ever to shatter any time that Harry and Draco managed to get by themselves. He would make Harry take this advantage.  
  
So he said, “Something that can help you,” and held out the golden knot.  
  
Harry grasped it.  
  
And, in a whirlwind of colors, he vanished.   
  
Weasley screamed. Draco reached out and groped in the air where Harry had been like a fool. Then something light drifted down and hit him on the head. Draco reached up, moving as slowly as though he were in a dream, and took the thing out of his hair.  
  
It was a letter.  
  
 _Do not ever_ , Lucius’s handwriting said, _assume you can fool your father as to where your true allegiances lie._  
  
And the realization that his father had used him to betray Harry came down on Draco and blotted out the sun.


	13. Weariness

  
Severus’s best ladle shattered against the rim of the cauldron when his left arm began to burn.  
  
For long moments, Severus didn’t let himself react. He stood there, breathing harshly, staring at the ladle and considering the cost of another. Then he pulled up his sleeve and looked down at his Dark Mark.  
  
It glared up at him, so ugly that Severus wanted to flinch. He didn’t, but only because he had been dreaming for the last few nights about what he would do if the Dark Lord returned and summoned him to his side. In his dreams, the Mark had been even uglier.  
  
He had decided he would never spy again not long ago. Dumbledore had had enough of him, and his guilt was expiated. There was no cause in the world strong enough to move him from that position.  
  
But now the paucity of that position was exposed to him. There was a cause in the world strong enough to move him to do anything: Lily. And his original guilt had not been expiated yet because the Dark Lord was not dead, and never would be until he had been destroyed in spirit, as well as in body. If he had regained enough strength to summon his followers, then he was coming back again.  
  
The war was not over. Lily still burned in his mind like a fiery ghost, unavenged.  
  
 _And what will Potter do now?_  
  
He would need training that Severus had neglected to provide him, because Potter seemed so reluctant to learn anything from him and because Severus had believed that he would not need those skills any time soon. He would need secrets of the Dark Lord’s strength that no one else was able to give him, because everyone else would, of necessity, have to do their spying from a distance.  
  
 _The war is not over._  
  
With a shudder that spanned the whole length of his body and then left his face untroubled a moment later, Severus turned to fetch the robes and mask that still hung in the farthest corner of his cupboards.  
  
*  
  
For long moments, Draco could contend with nothing more than his father’s letter and the feeling settling over him, like snow on stone, that he would never see Harry again.  
  
But then he had something else to think about, because someone was beating him about the head with hard fists.  
  
“Where is Harry?” Weasley snarled directly into his face, and then slammed a punch into Draco’s gut, spilling him to the ground and stealing his breath. _Not the best way to get me to answer_ , Draco thought dazedly, and reflected that perhaps it was for the best that he couldn’t talk at the moment. “I know you did something to him. What was it, Malfoy? Answer me, or I’m going to curse you with neverending boils and leave you here for—”  
  
His voice broke at the end. He was crying, or near to crying, and that was the only reason Draco didn’t draw his wand and try to curse Weasley back. He was worried about Harry. Draco could sympathize with that. He could deal with that.  
  
For the moment, he dug his hands into the grass and struggled to rise. Weasley didn’t seem to notice at first, but he lifted his wand threateningly when Draco made it to his knees. Draco held his empty palms up in front of him and spoke as slowly and calmly as he could.  
  
“I didn’t know. I gave him something that was a Portkey, but _I didn’t know_!” He yelped the last words, because Weasley’s wand had jabbed towards him far more threateningly than he felt comfortable with. “It came from Moody. He said it was something that would help Harry with the Third Task. And then I got that letter from my father.” He nodded at the paper now lying crumpled on the ground.  
  
Weasley didn’t even glance at it, though his eyes had narrowed. Draco had no idea if that was a good thing or not. “From Moody? I don’t believe you. He’s an Auror; he wouldn’t have anything to do with Dark magic!”  
  
“Well, that came from him,” Draco snapped. His fear was welling up again, so thick that he had to blink several times to clear what looked like choking fumes out of his eyes. “And it was obviously meant to take Harry _somewhere_ , and to trigger delivery of my father’s letter when it did.”  
  
“I only have your word that the letter is from your father,” Weasley replied infuriatingly. “Moody wouldn’t have anything to do with Dark magic.”  
  
“For crying out loud, Weasley,” said Draco, struggling not to use the insulting nicknames that he really wanted to use. That would only force Weasley away from him, and Draco had the sick, sinking feeling that he would need the dunderhead’s help if he was going to rescue Harry. Weasley was the only one besides Draco who knew what had really happened. “He taught us the _Unforgivable Curses_.”  
  
Weasley hesitated for a moment, then jerked his head to the side in a dismissive movement. “Only because Dumbledore told him to.”  
  
“And that means he can know Dark magic,” Draco persisted. He wouldn’t let Weasley derail this conversation, not when Harry could be in danger. “That means he uses Dark magic. And I only gave that knot to Harry because I thought it would help him. For Merlin’s sake, why would I help Harry all year, and be his friend, if I wanted to kill him? There are easier ways to do that.”  
  
“I don’t care,” Weasley said. “Maybe you just wanted to be part of the big plot when it finally _did_ happen. I know you hate Harry. I know you’re jealous of him. I know you’ve always been jealous of me for being his friend.” His hand was tightening on his wand.  
  
Draco thought of asking why he would be jealous of Weasley for being Harry’s friend if he hated Harry, but it was only too clear that this line of conversation wasn’t going to do anything. They had to _do_ something. Draco couldn’t watch his best friend be snatched from in front of him, and know that he had partially caused it, and then not do anything to stop it.  
  
“I’m going to Professor Snape,” he said, and shoved himself to his feet whilst Weasley was thinking about that, before he could make up his mind to launch a curse.  
  
“He’ll only protect you because you’re a Slytherin and he hates Harry, too,” Weasley said. “He gave Harry so many detentions this term—”  
  
“Because he was teaching him in Potions and Dark Arts,” Draco snapped. “You notice that Harry’s got a little better in Potions than he was? He makes higher marks now? That was Professor Snape’s teaching.”  
  
Weasley’s eyes narrowed. The wand wavered, a bit.  
  
“And anyway,” Draco added impatiently, “he has Veritaserum, and I’ll volunteer to take it, and that’ll prove that I didn’t really betray Harry.”  
  
Before Weasley could protest again, Draco marched towards the castle. Weasley came promptly, and hurriedly, behind, trying to look as if he were a guard in charge of a prisoner.  
  
Draco didn’t really care. His mind was full of bloody lashes and the spells that Lucius had used on the house-elf, Dobby.  
  
 _If my father’s wherever the Portkey took Harry, then he’ll really suffer._  
  
*  
  
Harry came out of the whirl of colors on his broom, and he heard high-pitched, cold laughter nearby, and someone was running towards him across grass that crunched under his feet. Harry had heard that laughter before, in nightmares and whenever Dementors were near.  
  
 _His broom._  
  
His broom was still with him, the broom that Sirius had given him and which Harry would die if anything happened to.  
  
He immediately leaped to the ground and threw the broom down beside him, whispering the most powerful protective charm he knew, one which Draco had taught him after Harry had caught Seamus poking around his trunk. The broom sparkled and then disappeared under a rush of white light that faded a moment later, so the broom blended with the heather it was lying on. Harry took a deep breath of relief.  
  
Then someone seized him and spun him around. Harry tried to lift his wand, but it was taken away from him, and the person holding him pressed his own wand against Harry’s throat, forcing his head back.  
  
 _Wormtail_. Harry would recognize the man anywhere. The glimpses he’d got of him in the photographs Seamus had burned and in the Pensieve memories that Remus and Sirius had shared with Harry assured him of that.  
  
“Wormtail,” he gasped.  
  
Pettigrew shifted around for a moment, as if he disliked the name, and then shook his head and started dragging Harry across the grass. Harry managed to turn his head and see where they were for the first time.  
  
It was a graveyard, and most of the graves they passed were mere low mounds of grass, with the headstones sticking out above them and leaning over like old teeth. Harry shivered with disgust and tried to twist away from Pettigrew, aiming to bite him in the arm. But Pettigrew cast the same Body-Bind that Snape had last year when he was chasing Sirius, and Harry found himself motionless.  
  
He was laid on a block of stone, and Pettigrew turned away. Harry’s head was frozen so that he couldn’t even move it to see what Pettigrew was doing. He strained his muscles against the spell, relaxing and then clenching them again. That had seemed to work last time he was imprisoned under this. If he could just get away—  
  
Then he forgot about doing that for a moment and nearly fainted from fear instead. The biggest snake he had ever seen had coiled up beside him, most of its body apparently resting on the ground next to the block of stone but a great deal of it rearing above him. The snake swayed back and forth, eyeing him intently. Harry couldn’t see a hood, so he knew it wasn’t a cobra, but that wasn’t really reassuring.  
  
He thought he had seen this snake before, in the nightmares he’d had a few times during the summer, before they abruptly stopped. It was Voldemort’s snake. He couldn’t remember what it was called, but he didn’t have to for it to be terrifying. It was big enough to eat him, and he doubted it would respond to his Parseltongue any more than the basilisk had.  
  
“Nagini!”  
  
The snake turned and slithered away from Harry, towards the source of the voice. _Voldemort_ , Harry thought. _Just like the laughter_. He wished he could cast some kind of wandless curse in the direction of the voice, but if that was possible, he’d sure never heard about it. _Where’s accidental magic when you need it, anyway?_  
  
“Wormtail! Prepare the cauldron!”  
  
“I’m doing so, master.” Wormtail’s voice was so servile that Harry felt embarrassed for him. He’d never sounded like that even when the Dursleys commanded him to do some painful or humiliating chore. He managed to make them believe he didn’t care about their orders instead, which frustrated Uncle Vernon something awful.  
  
“Bone of the father,” Voldemort’s voice said gloatingly. “Blood of the enemy. Flesh of the servant.” The voice came nearer, though Harry still couldn’t turn his head and gauge why. “How does it feel to know that you will be instrumental in bringing your most hated enemy back to life, Harry?”  
  
Harry’s scar began to burn, and helpless tears ran from his eyes. Voldemort appeared in front of him, a nearly formless lump of flesh with a face and a pair of stubby arms and legs, cradled in the coils of Nagini. His eyes were wide and red and exhilarated and terrifying. When he reached out and stroked Harry’s scar with the stump where a hand should be, Harry vomited with the pain, but the liquid ran back down inside his throat because he couldn’t turn his head.  
  
Voldemort noticed. “Wormtail!” he said briskly.  
  
Wormtail made a hoarse, horrible scream in response. Harry shivered and then almost vomited again when Nagini leaned down towards him, its tongue flickering as if it wanted to smell his fear.   
  
He could do absolutely nothing. Voldemort was going to take his blood and use it in some kind of potion or spell, and Harry just had to lie here—  
  
And he couldn’t stand that. Think of all the people who would be hurt if he did that. Ron, and Hermione, and Draco even if he was a traitor—because if he _was_ , then it couldn’t be because he knew the truth about Voldemort—and Neville and Ginny and Dumbledore and Snape—  
  
He _had_ to do something.  
  
And suddenly his head was free, a little. He was able to tilt it and spit out the nauseating mixture of half-digested food and bile that was choking him, at least. And then, as Voldemort chuckled and floated towards him in the shifting tangles of the snake, Harry mustered the courage and the liquid and spat in his face.  
  
Voldemort shrieked as if Harry’s saliva actually had the power to harm him whilst it trickled down his cheeks and collected in the corners of his flat mouth. Nagini hissed and opened its mouth as if it would strike, but Voldemort waved a nonexistent hand and snapped, “Wormtail!” again.  
  
Harry managed to turn his head, and saw Wormtail coming towards them with a horribly bleeding wound. It looked as if he’d chopped off his _hand_ and dropped it into the cauldron. Harry stared in horror, and didn’t notice the silver knife in Wormtail’s hand, or the vial, until the first had sliced into his arm and the second had been arranged to collect his blood.  
  
Harry screamed without reserve for a moment, because it _hurt_ , and then decided that he would deny Voldemort even that if he could. He clamped his lips shut and only whimpered as Wormtail drew out the blood and took it back to toss into the cauldron. Harry didn’t watch him. Instead, he stared defiantly straight at his enemy and managed to summon more saliva. This time, he used it to moisten his lips and speak. “If you were a real man,” he said, “you’d unbind me and duel with me. Coward.”  
  
Voldemort laughed. The sound made Harry’s scar ache as if a second knife was stabbing through his skull. “Patience, patience,” Voldemort said at last, dropping down into a chuckle like the screams of some small tortured furry animal. “I can hardly fight you as I am, young Harry. It will be best to wait.” His lips widened into an appreciative smile, if you could call them lips, if you could call that a smile. “Until I am back to my normal self, and until we have an audience. Yes, an audience will be best.”  
  
The snake swarmed away then, still carrying Voldemort, but turning its head back from time to time to hiss at Harry. Harry lay there, panting, and tried to collect himself from the impulse to scream or curl up and whimper until something else happened and made him uncurl. He could be brave enough to try and not show his pain and anger, at least.  
  
Still, he found himself unable to watch Voldemort’s resurrection. It was bitter enough to hear the triumphant laugh and to smell the stench that filled the air as Voldemort entered the cauldron, a mixture of rotting roses and unshelled oysters.  
  
*  
  
Severus Apparated into a graveyard he recognized at once; he had visited it once before, when the Dark Lord had required Severus to attend him on a mission to gather potions ingredients. Even then, though the Dark Lord had claimed that the rare spotted aconite grew nowhere but here, Severus had recognized that for a lie. He knew this place meant something else to his master.  
  
 _His master._  
  
The words were heavy and useless in his thoughts, as cold as lead, but he had to think them. Soon he would have to say them. Best to prepare the mouth by preparing the head.  
  
He turned to look around the circle as he cast himself to the ground, and recognized, from the set of their shoulders and the curve of their backs, at least three of the other Death Eaters. Of course, Lucius was unmistakable; he never _did_ manage to bind up that long pale hair of his so that it was all hidden under the hood of his robe. And there was Macnair, the most muscled of all the Death Eaters, and the cowering shape that would be Avery. Avery had been suspected more than once of turning traitor, even before the end of the war.  
  
Severus took a moment to resent the emotions and understandings and perceptions crowding back in on him, the intangible minutiae that ruled the life of a spy.   
  
Then he turned his head and saw Potter lying on what looked like an altar in front of an open grave.  
  
For a long moment, his muscles cramped, and he was glad that the Dark Lord had not required them to stand in that moment to prove their allegiance; Severus would have fallen over. He stared in silence as the Dark Lord, standing with his hand on Pettigrew’s arm, began a long, rambling speech about the necessity of conquering the world and the return of faithful servants and how it was that he had come back to his body after so long.  
  
Severus knew how he had come back to his body—Dark magic, using Potter’s blood and perhaps his flesh—and didn’t care to listen. He stared at the boy instead, and the emotions moving through him changed as deliberately as the motions of the great snake coiled behind the Dark Lord.  
  
He was incapable of simply remaining still when Lily’s son was in danger. He might need to be a spy; he might need to suffer pain and obscure his thoughts because his debt to Dumbledore was not repaid. But far worse than betraying Lily by running from this war would be to betray her because he had not been able to rescue her son.  
  
 _I could not prevent him from killing you, Lily. I can prevent this._  
  
And though it might cost his life, he would.  
  
The Dark Lord was still ranting on. Usually, he had ended the speech by now to torture someone. Oh, yes, he had called Avery out of the ranks and was inflicting the Cruciatus upon him. Severus began to shift a hand across the grass, moving an inch every few minutes. He kept his mind calm and clear, and not simply because he was using Occlumency. He was prepared to give up this exercise should the Dark Lord call on him, and begin all over again the moment he was unwatched. This was the kind of patience that had kept him alive when he was a spy.  
  
But the Dark Lord was occupied with torturing Avery, and then Macnair, whom he resented for getting a job in the Ministry, it seemed, whilst he was wandering the world as a bodiless spirit. Severus’s hand closed on the object he had sought, one of the buttons that secured his robes shut, without interruption.  
  
He had fallen forwards when he arrived, and so his wand was already beneath him. It took only a moment to aim it an angle that would permit him to strike the button with the spell he murmured.  
  
He made it into a Portkey to Hogwarts, and he made it so without moving his lips. Then he tapped the button with his wand and incanted the opposite of the Summoning Charm, which sent the object to a desired destination. This destination happened to be a clump of grass at the foot of the “altar” on which Potter was tied.  
  
Severus had done what he could. He drew his hand back inside his robe and settled into a “comfortable” groveling position so he could listen, with cold, clear disgust, to Lucius describing his part in the latest disaster.  
  
*  
  
“And so when my son betrayed me and began to consort with Potter,” Lucius Malfoy finished, sounding like a cat with a mouth full of cream, “I knew that I wanted to make him part of my reprisal against the boy, that he might learn the error of his ways.”  
  
Harry hated.   
  
The hatred was as steady as a heartbeat, as steady as the pain that had been flaring through his scar ever since Voldemort had called the Death Eaters and moved a certain distance away to lean on Wormtail’s arm. And all that hatred was directed at Lucius Malfoy rather than at Voldemort.  
  
But Voldemort was just an obstacle Harry already knew he would have to deal with, like exams and storms and the Dursleys. Lucius had set up his own son to betray Harry by willingly feeding Draco untrue information and making him trust someone who was at the school in the guise of Moody. That person’s name hadn’t been mentioned yet, but Harry knew they couldn’t be the real Moody, because Lucius had said so. And he had no reason to lie. He was bragging in front of all his friends, telling them the truth to make them jealous.  
  
 _It wasn’t Draco._  
  
That was the real thing Harry cared about. He hadn’t _wanted_ to believe that Draco could be responsible for his betrayal, so he’d avoided thinking about it too much, but the possibility had still lurked in the back of his mind. Now he knew it wasn’t true, and when Voldemort turned to him with a greedy look, Harry could just laugh.  
  
“Did you want to talk,” he asked Voldemort, with a bored expression on his face that he knew wasn’t real but which he hoped Voldemort wouldn’t know about, “or did you want to duel?”  
  
For a moment, Voldemort, who had become a man without a nose and with lips just as flat as they’d been in his deformed baby face, hissed with rage. Then he smoothed that expression away and smirked. “Wormtail,” he said, “give young Master Potter back his wand. Yes, we will indeed duel.”  
  
Wormtail limped over to free Harry. He had a silver hand now, to replace the one he’d cut off, Harry saw. He looked Wormtail in the face once, and gave him a glare that he tried to make sting. It must have worked, because Wormtail looked away from him and gulped nervously as he cast the spell that reversed the Body-Bind.  
  
And then Harry had his wand in his hand again, and he was shaking with fear but also with determination, and he knew what he was going to do. There was no way he would win in a real duel against Voldemort, so he had to do two things. One was to take his broom and get out of there as soon as possible.  
  
But the first was to hurt Lucius Malfoy.  
  
He climbed slowly to his feet and took his time swinging off the stone whilst the Death Eaters formed a wide ring around them. They were shifting and whispering eagerly among themselves. Lucius, the only one who had removed his mask, was smirking like Dudley when he’d stolen sweets from some younger children down the street. And a tall Death Eater not far from Lucius stood in a familiar way, his arms folded.  
  
 _Snape._  
  
Harry had the feeling that Snape had tried to catch his eye. He looked away at once. God knew what sort of horrible things Snape would do to him now, now that he was here as a faithful Death Eater.  
  
“Bow to me,” Voldemort said.  
  
 _Oh, no_. “I won’t,” Harry said.  
  
“ _Imperio_!” Voldemort flicked his wand, which was long and made of some dark wood—yew, Harry thought, Mr. Ollivander’s words suddenly coming back to him for no reason—and the spell hit Harry. It made his mind feel floaty, just as it had when Not-Moody cast it in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but the little voice that advised him to pay attention to the suggestion was just as stupid as ever.  
  
“NO!” Harry said, and in the distraction of that moment, with Voldemort staring at him and most of the Death Eaters leaping into the air in sheer surprise, he turned his wand towards Lucius and cast one of the curses Snape had taught him.  
  
“ _Creo impotens_!”  
  
Lucius cried out as the purple hand took form around his groin and closed down. Harry grinned and danced sideways when someone shot a curse at him; he thought it was Voldemort, but he didn’t want to take the time to look away from Lucius right now. Besides, Voldemort was slower than Snape.  
  
 _And now he’ll have a hard time having sex with anyone ever again_. Harry had been beyond embarrassed when Snape taught him that curse. He hadn’t thought he’d ever use it. But it felt bloody good right now.  
  
Then Voldemort started trying to kill him.  
  
It was much more terrifying than Harry had expected it would be, based on the basilisk and his fight with Voldemort when he was still in the back of Professor Quirrell’s head. Red lights and green ones—the Killing Curse—and white ones and purple ones stabbed the grass around him, and the Death Eaters swayed and hummed in a way that they seemed to think would give Voldemort more strength. Harry thought he’d lose a finger or a toe several times. He leaped and scrambled and rolled and dodged, and found himself too busy to even try to fire back, or construct a Shield Charm.  
  
But all the time, he was working towards where his broom lay. And then he was right on top of it, near the place where the golden knot had brought him.  
  
Harry dived under another curse, this one a wavering, snapping flag of light like a wind made visible, and seized the broom. The protective charm washed away at once. Harry hopped onto the broom and soared madly upwards.  
  
Voldemort shouted, and this time a whole _bunch_ of spells fired after Harry. Harry didn’t care. He flattened himself to the broom and shot into the sky. If he got high enough, then maybe he could see the way back to Hogwarts, or maybe he could see the lights of London and make his way towards them. And at the least, if they killed him, then they would have to kill his broom at the same time.  
  
*  
  
Severus cursed within his head, too wary to do so aloud. There was always someone who would notice even at a time like this, when half the Death Eaters were trying desperately to join their lord in the hunt.  
  
Damn and _blast_ the Potter’s brat’s audacity. If he’d remained on the ground the way he was supposed to, then Severus might have managed to catch his eye, as he’d tried several times to do, and force the mental impression of the Portkey on him. Now he was had to resort to a far more dangerous maneuver.  
  
He aimed his wand at the hidden button Portkey and jerked his arm, once, chanting the incantation in his head. He held his breath as the button left the ground and zoomed towards Potter. If this didn’t work, then he suspected there was no chance for Potter to escape. Only the boy’s insane luck had kept him alive so far, and perhaps a modicum of his skill at Quidditch once he got back on the broom. And the Portkey could easily be destroyed by one of the many curses flying through the air around Potter.  
  
But he saw, or thought he saw, the tiny shape aiming true on its course, and then he knew it had worked, because Potter vanished in the swirl of colors that heralded a Portkey.  
  
The Dark Lord shouted once, a full-throated roar that resembled a lion’s so much as to make Severus wonder idly for a moment if he was almost Sorted into Gryffindor. Then he turned to questioning and torturing his Death Eaters, because of course he suspected treachery among them. And Severus could not fault him for that.  
  
He prepared his Occlumency shields and went through his own share of pain as serenely as possible. It calmed and strengthened him more than he could have imagined, to know that he was the source of Potter’s escape.  
  
*  
  
Draco’s knuckles ached from fruitless pounding on Professor Snape’s door, until Weasley had convinced him that the professor must not be there and dragged him up the stairs to speak to the Headmaster. His throat ached from talking, from screaming, from shouting. His head ached from the dizzy press of blood against his temples, as it throbbed again and again and told him that Harry was _dead_ , he was _dead_ , and Draco hadn’t been able to _do_ anything.  
  
And still the Headmaster looked at Draco through mild, if sad, eyes, and insisted that he repeat the whole tale from the beginning.  
  
Draco gripped the arms of his chair and leaned forwards. “I’ve already told you as much as I _know_ ,” he said. “Even if you don’t believe me, can’t you at least slip some Veritaserum into Moody’s tea and see what he tells you?”  
  
“I do believe you,” Dumbledore said, in the patient, inflexible voice that told Draco he really didn’t. “However, my boy, these are serious accusations you are repeating. I must know—”  
  
And then there was a hand flinging open the door that led to the moving staircase, and Harry was running inside, his arm bleeding, his eyes so wide that he might have seen the Dark Lord himself.  
  
Draco leaped to his feet and ran to him. He was almost there when he remembered. The last time Harry had seen Draco, he’d just handed Harry the Portkey that took him away. Would he think of that first? Would that be all he knew?  
  
But Harry reached out, grasped Draco’s hand, and shook it, once. “I saw your father,” he said. “He bragged.”  
  
Draco took a long, deep breath. The relief that flooded him was almost sweeter than what he felt when he turned around and looked at Weasley’s face, only to see it had set in an expression of confusion. Draco controlled the urge to snicker or to dance. After all, Harry’s arm was still bleeding.  
  
“Sir,” Harry said to Dumbledore, “Voldemort is back.”  
  
Draco had not realized that name could still shock him like a slap to the face, even though he’d heard Harry say it before. Maybe it was just the name combined with the word _back_ , he thought, as a profound silence settled over the room.  
  
Back to war. Back to slavery. Back to his father being a Death Eater.  
  
His father. How was Draco going to face him, now that he knew Draco had been betraying him all along and passing information from the letters to Harry?  
  
“Mr. Weasley, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said suddenly, standing, “please wait for us in the infirmary, where Mr. Potter will be coming after I’ve spoken with him. I need to talk to him alone.”  
  
*  
  
Harry blinked when he saw Ron and Draco both leave. He could tell they didn’t want to—they were both turning back and staring at him even as they shambled out the door—but they went anyway. And why? Why did Dumbledore have to talk to him alone? Could he really think that Ron or Draco would run off and betray him?  
  
Dumbledore shut the door to the moving staircase and turned around to face Harry. Harry straightened his shoulders. There was a complex expression on the Headmaster’s face, and suddenly Harry wondered if he was going to learn some information he should have learned a long time ago.  
  
“Harry.” Dumbledore spoke his name in the same way that Harry had always wished Uncle Vernon would say it, as if he were about to apologize for all his mistakes. “I wanted to keep you a child. When I was young, I lost—someone very dear to me through my lack of responsibility. She should have been protected and sheltered more than she was, not exposed to Dark magic and ruin at a young age. I thought, if I kept you away from a fate like that, you could grow up to be happier than she was. And I did not dare trust myself with your protection after what happened to her, no matter that Professor McGonagall advised me not to leave you with your relatives.” He sighed. “I wonder if you can forgive me.”  
  
Harry clenched his hands several times. Then he said, “But I faced Dark magic and Voldemort _anyway_. What you did to me didn’t do any good.” For the first time, he was aware of the pain in his bleeding arm.  
  
Dumbledore looked up, and his eyes were almost sad enough that Harry wanted to comfort him instead of being comforted. “I know that. I understand that now, Harry. And I am going to do what I should have done from the first, or at least from the time you were eleven, and treat you as an adult.  
  
“I heard a prophecy not long before your birth which convinced me that you and Voldemort were destined to oppose each other. You were not the only candidate. Neville Longbottom also fit some of the characteristics of the prophecy child. So, although I hid your parents and Neville’s parents both, I did not take any more decisive steps at first. Voldemort—had some knowledge of the prophecy, through a means I had not anticipated. He did not know the whole, but enough that his choice was important.  
  
“He chose you, Harry. He marked you as his equal.” Dumbledore turned and waved his wand. A Pensieve floated off a shelf among the other glittering silver objects and over to his hand. Dumbledore touched his wand to his temple, took out a long, glimmering strand of memory, and dropped it into the Pensieve, then held it out to Harry.   
  
Harry hesitated, then plunged his head into the memory.  
  
He saw Professor Trelawney in a small room that he didn’t recognize, her eyes rolling back into her head as she spoke in a voice that made Harry’s hair try to rise on the nape of his neck. Dumbledore was standing across from her, staring at her as if he didn’t know quite what to make of the words spilling out of her mouth.  
  
“ _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies_ …”  
  
And then the memory ended, and Harry found himself standing back in Dumbledore’s office once more.   
  
The pain in his cut and bleeding arm seemed to have settled into his bones. He had lost the joy that had sustained him when he hurled the impotence curse at Lucius, the determination to survive that had made him hurtle across the sky and immediately hurry to Dumbledore’s office when he landed back at Hogwarts. Then, he had still been thinking that he would tell everything to Dumbledore and, for once, with all the evidence right in front of him, Dumbledore would be the one to sort matters out.  
  
 _Either must die at the hand of the other._  
  
Dumbledore wouldn’t be sorting anything out. It was all up to Harry.  
  
He shivered and looked up. Dumbledore gave him a smile full of worry and heartbreak and inclined his head slightly.  
  
“You see why I kept this from you?” he murmured. “It is a burden too heavy for any child to bear. But now I see that you must bear it anyway, and sooner than I had expected. I had hoped that Voldemort would not return until you were in your seventh year, at least, of age and ready to hear harder truths.” He sighed. “He did mark you, Harry. He _chose_ to mark you.” He gestured to the scar on Harry’s forehead. “He believed the prophecy was true. He has great trust in its power. But the prophecy does not say that he will win and you will die, Harry. It says that the issue is a matter of chance.”  
  
“Chance,” Harry whispered. His throat was so dry he could hardly get the word out.  
  
“Oh, people will help you,” Dumbledore said. “Professor Snape will train you—and in a new subject next year, called Occlumency, because now that Voldemort has returned fully, I am afraid that he will try to use the curse scar as a link into your mind. Tricky things, curse scars. One must be prepared to combat their full effects.” He appeared to meditate for a moment, and then returned to himself with a start. “And there is a group called the Order of Phoenix that fought him during the first war. They must be resurrected. And your friends will stand beside you—Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger. And of course I will be here, and your Head of House, and the other professors will help you as best as they can. You must not be dismayed if you saw Professor Snape at the meeting of Death Eaters tonight, Harry. He was a spy during the war, and I am sure he has not returned to his oldest allegiance.”  
  
Harry ignored that, because, at the moment, he didn’t care much about Snape. “You didn’t mention Draco.”  
  
Dumbledore was silent for long moments. Then he said, “Mr. Malfoy has made it clear how much he likes you, Harry.” He laid a heavy emphasis on _likes_ which Harry frowned at. Of course Draco was one of his best friends. So what? “But showing that friendship openly is likely to get him into trouble with his father. What must happen is his submission to Lucius in formal terms, whilst he silently maintains his rebellion. If he wants to be a spy for us in his father’s house, I would welcome that. But he cannot meet with you openly as he was doing.”  
  
“That’s stupid!” Harry said hotly. “That’s so dangerous for him, and _he’s_ a child without a prophecy about him, and—”  
  
“He wants to help.” Dumbledore peered directly, seriously, at him. “Would you forbid him to help you, when this is the only effort of friendship he can make in the situation? Or would you give up your friendship with him altogether rather than meet with him in secret?”  
  
“Don’t be stupid,” Harry said, and only realized what he had said a moment later, when Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir. But I don’t want him to be a spy—”  
  
“That is his decision to make,” said Dumbledore. “It might be that he can lie well enough to his father to fool him. I hope so, because I have no legal recourse to take him from his parents. But whether he does or does not, your meetings with him must be in secret from now on. Not to do that will put him in _worse_ danger.”  
  
Harry opened his mouth, and then closed it. He wanted to say that he didn’t want to meet with Draco in secret, because it made everything harder, and he would be more alone than ever now, because he didn’t trust Snape and Sirius certainly couldn’t come back because Wormtail would try to hunt him and Lucius Malfoy was just as much a danger to Draco whether he believed him or not, because he could change his mind at any time—  
  
And he _had_ to close his mouth, because what was anything that Harry wanted when compared to the danger Draco was in?  
  
“I understand, sir,” he whispered.  
  
“You will have to be strong, Harry.” Dumbledore’s voice was terribly earnest, in a way that made Harry hurt the way he did when McGonagall was disappointed in him, and he didn’t even know why. “You will have to be safe. You’ll stay with the Dursleys this summer. I did hope that you could spend part of it with Sirius or the Weasleys, but—” He closed his eyes for a moment, and Harry thought he was seeing the man who had fought against Voldemort before, or maybe Grindelwald. “That’s impossible.”  
  
“Yes, sir.” Harry’s voice was dusty and mechanical now. He hadn’t even thought that much about the summer because he’d hoped so fervently it would be different. But of course it wouldn’t be. If Voldemort was back, it was even more important for him to stay where he was protected.  
  
“Blood wards are on that house,” Dumbledore continued softly. “Blood wards founded in your mother’s love.” He sighed and shook his head. “I would not leave you there if there was a choice, Harry. I know they do not treat you well. But if it is the difference between a little mistreatment and murder…”  
  
Harry nodded mechanically, again. He knew he was luckier than some kids. The Dursleys never had tried to hit him, except for Dudley, even if Uncle Vernon looked as if he wanted to sometimes. And there were no whippings.  
  
“You are taking this very well, Harry.” Dumbledore’s voice was low and approving. “Like an adult. I must ask you to take a further adult step and keep the prophecy secret and close. And now, dear child, I think I should send you to Madam Pomfrey to have your arm cleaned and bandaged. She would be angry with me already if she knew how long I had kept you here talking.”  
  
 _If I’m still an adult, why are you calling me a dear child_? Harry thought, but he was tired, and his arm hurt, and his head hurt, and he did want to go to the infirmary, so he went.  
  
*  
  
Severus was tired, even after he swallowed several potions for the nerve damage he would certainly have incurred from the Dark Lord’s Cruciatus Curse.  
  
It had taken him some time to sort out what had happened after he returned. Draco had flown to him at once when he went to the hospital wing to check on the Potter brat, babbling over with nervousness. From him, Severus had learned of Moody’s part in the treachery, and of the means by which Potter had been brought to the Dark Lord’s presence.  
  
Moody, Severus learned, or the man who had played him, was fled; Dumbledore had kept Draco close in his office, playing at being a doddering old man, because he had felt Moody cross the wards and Apparate out shortly after Draco brought the Portkey to Potter. Otherwise, he would certainly have arrested the man at once. As it was, he thought it best to keep Draco from a useless search for him that might have contaminated _Draco_ with further suspicion in other students’ eyes. And as it was, Severus might have stood next to the imposter under robes and mask and never known it was him.  
  
At least he had been able to tell Dumbledore, based on the compulsive bragging Lucius had done as they left the meeting, that the man was Barty Crouch, Junior. Lucius had been instrumental in getting him into Moody’s place.  
  
 _Lucius stands higher in the Dark Lord’s councils than ever I knew_ , Severus thought, and tore his gaze away from the sleeping boy in the bed to the alert and dry-eyed boy beside him. The boy Severus thought had adopted an insanely dangerous course when he decided to spy on his father for Dumbledore and Potter. He had been present at _that_ meeting, at his own insistence, though his shouting had done no good at all.  
  
“Draco,” he began now, thinking he might stand a chance with Potter asleep and Dumbledore in discussions with the Minister, and thus Draco’s two main sources of influence away from him.  
  
“You can’t convince me otherwise.” Draco’s voice was very calm, settled, in a way that Severus didn’t like. He turned around and stared up at Severus. “I’d have to lie to my father anyway, given what happened when I gave the Portkey to Harry.”  
  
“I know that,” Severus said sharply, and trotted out the argument he hadn’t been able to use in front of Dumbledore. “But you failed to fool him once before. I do not like your chances a second time.”  
  
“This is going to be different.”  
  
“You can’t know that.” Severus wanted to snarl. Draco’s greatest fault had always been overconfidence, and it had turned on him and bitten as him never before. Did Draco intend to forget the lesson so soon?  
  
“Yes, I can.” Draco clenched his hands into fists and sounded as if he were trying to control his breathing. “It’ll be different because this time, it _has_ to be different. I’ll do it or I won’t survive.”  
  
Severus knelt in front of Draco and caught his eye. He had no words to express his pride and his grief.  
  
But he could offer something better.  
  
“We have a month before the end of term,” he said. “I will teach you every spare moment that I have, so that you may master Occlumency. Occlumency influences behavior once deeply learned. It renders the spoken lies more convincing, when others can hear the clang of your mental armor in your words. They quite often mistake it for the clang of truth. And I will want you to request a personal house-elf from your father and use any means you can to suborn it, so that you may send it to me in times of need. Do you _understand_ , Draco?”  
  
Draco smiled. His face looked fragile and old and young. “I do. And actually, I freed a house-elf last summer that my father punished for helping Harry, so I think the others will be happy to help me.”  
  
Severus took a deep breath and laid a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Good.” There was nothing more than that to say.  
  
Draco turned his gaze back to the bed—of course, Severus thought as he stood. “Does he know that you saved his life?”  
  
“If he is smart he will have guessed that, yes,” Severus said dryly. “Portkeys do not appear out of thin air every day. But I did not reach the hospital wing before he fell asleep, as you know, and I am accustomed to our arrogant young hero doing everything he can to avoid acknowledging my role in his life. We are comrades in war now, and that will have to be enough for him.” He took a deep breath. “We are both spies now, Draco, and we will both need to maintain an antagonistic relationship to Potter on the surface, beginning immediately. Your father will be more likely to believe your ‘defection’ if he has a month of evidence before you go home.”  
  
“I know that,” Draco said lowly. Then he looked up at Severus. “But I can still come and talk to you about this?”  
  
“You may come and talk to me about _anything_ ,” said Severus fiercely, and, because no one else was around to see him, he embraced the boy.  
  
*  
  
Harry quickly turned his head back into the pillow and shut his eyes. The image remained, though.   
  
Snape hugging Draco.  
  
And the words were there, too: Snape promising to help Draco, training him in everything he’d need to know, whilst he went forwards to do something important on the front lines of the war during the summer.  
  
And Harry ached all over.   
  
With fear for Draco, and pride, because he had freed Dobby.  
  
With helplessness because he wouldn’t be able to do anything to help during _his_ summer, even though he was the one who would have to fight Voldemort in the end.  
  
With loss because he wouldn’t be able to meet openly with Draco as his friend anymore, and he was sure both Snape and Dumbledore would try to make sure their meetings were as quick and as few as possible.  
  
And with envy, envy he hated and tried to suppress, but which sat there and ached and bled and burned anyway.  
  
Draco had someone who cared for him. Someone who would train him in the things he most needed to know. Someone who acknowledged the similarities between them and looked at him with an expression of pride.  
  
Harry wasn’t ever going to have that.  
  
He’d thought there might have been a small chance Snape would have changed his mind when he saw Harry escaping from Voldemort—but no. He still thought Harry was arrogant. And it was true that Snape had had to save his life. Harry hadn’t escaped on his own the same way he hadn’t solved the First Task on his own; that had been Draco’s plan.  
  
 _So how am I going to act on my own now? The way I have to, if I’m going to defeat Voldemort?_   
  
Harry took a deep breath and held it for long moments; if he released it the huff he wanted to release it in, that would tell Draco and Snape he wasn’t really asleep. But he was carefully making up his mind, and he knew the conclusions he was coming to were the right ones.  
  
Snape and Draco had each other. It was _good_ they had each other. Snape could teach Draco about being a spy, and he could teach him how to live. Harry was a liability right now to both of them.  
  
And Harry didn’t really want Snape as a teacher, anyway. And if seeing Harry facing death didn’t change his mind about Harry’s arrogance, nothing ever would.  
  
Harry would do what he had to do to survive. He would pretend to hate Draco. He would distrust Snape (there was no pretending about that). He would keep the prophecy to himself, as Dumbledore had asked him to do, and he would prepare for a war he didn’t really know anything about, because he hadn’t even been injured to speak of in this first “battle” with Voldemort.   
  
He would be an adult. He would be what everyone wanted him to be.  
  
But he would spend more time with Ron and Hermione, who he’d only been able to talk to briefly before he “fell asleep,” because they were the only people left he could be sure would be able to walk around openly with him.   
  
And he would make sure to visit Sirius as often as he could next year. Because he needed an adult who could care for him, too, and Sirius was what he had.


	14. Revelation

  
Severus sat in the stands and watched as Potter stumbled out of the maze that comprised the Third Task, well behind the triumphant Diggory. He curled his lip. _Even the Delacour girl emerged before he did. Quite a showing for our Champion.  
  
But then, what should I have expected? He did not have help this time, and that affects him immeasurably._  
  
Potter leaned his head against the woven wall of the hedge and stood there a moment, as if exhausted. Perhaps he really was. Severus felt his lip curl still more. _He is exhausted from traversing a maze and a series of carefully chosen obstacles, which were meant to try but not defeat the Champions. How in the world will he manage to fight a war_?  
  
“Potter!”  
  
Draco’s shout cracked like a whip from the stands. Severus saw Potter’s eyes flare open briefly and his face stiffen in the moment before he turned around to face Draco. Several Slytherins had scrambled out of the way to let Draco through, all of them staring at him in confusion. They knew by now that he favored Potter’s company.  
  
But no one knew that this was the demonstration Potter and Draco were staging to convince Lucius that Draco was firmly on his father’s side. And Draco was impeccable, his face set and harsh. Severus couldn’t have been prouder of him.  
  
As it was, Potter had far too much emotion shining in his eyes and almost working its way down his cheeks in tears, but that was to be expected, thought Severus. He was not and never would be what Draco was. Besides, it was probably right for the purposes of this deception that he should show what he really felt.  
  
“Draco?” Potter whispered, and shifted his weight as if he would reach out. But Draco halted, folding his arms and sneering like an expert, and Potter stopped, clenching his hand into a fist instead. He looked utterly taken aback. Severus swallowed a sneer of his own. He suspected there was true shock mixing with the pretense. Had Potter thought Draco would try to spare him pain, when his life might depend on how Lucius judged the next few moments? Severus was tired of Potter’s thoroughly selfish assumptions and motivations, but he didn’t know that he had yet seen one the equal of this.  
  
“I thought you were better than this,” Draco said. “I thought you were going to be the Hogwarts Champion. And what do I find now?” He made a wide, sweeping gesture with one arm that seemed to take in the avid watchers, the shocked judges, the staring Diggory, and the silent hedge maze. “You’ve lost because you weren’t _fast_ enough.”  
  
“Draco—” Potter began again.  
  
“Just a matter of _speed_ ,” Draco said, and his voice grew more and more hectoring and spiteful, and Severus heard a few of his Slytherins exchange shocked snickers. “You have enough of it on your broom. Why couldn’t you have it here?”  
  
“You don’t know what I faced in that maze,” said Potter. A growing flush colored his cheeks, tearing at Severus’s emotions. On the one hand, Potter would be expected to feel anger on having a friend betray him publicly like this; on the other, it seemed as though his anger was genuine, and he had no right to feel _that_ , not when Draco was risking so much for him. “Obstacles that you couldn’t—”  
  
“I wasn’t available to help you prepare this time,” Draco interrupted, brushing his hands together, as though he meant to scrape Potter’s objections away like so much dust. “And so you depended on the Mudblood, didn’t you?”  
  
A profound silence followed the speaking of that word. Potter closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them and said in a steady voice, “If you’re going to call one of my _real_ friends that, then you might as well get out of my sight.”  
  
Draco laughed. “You don’t control Hogwarts, Potter. Expect to run across me again. And I’m going to make you pay for losing the Tournament and making me look like a fool for supporting you.” He turned away with a dignity that made Severus want to rise to his feet and break out in spontaneous applause.  
  
For a few more moments, Potter stayed on the field, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. Then his friends pelted down from the stands towards them, and he spread his arms to embrace them.  
  
Severus snorted, both irritated and satisfied. No doubt the boy’s embrace of them would be so complete that he would have tried to distance himself from Draco and Severus again when he returned for the autumn term. No doubt Severus would have to give him a stern speech about the risk they were both running and _command_ his attention before he would deign to give it.  
  
But such a speech would do no good now, when the boy had been going about pale and silent ever since the Dark Lord returned—as if _he_ were the one who ran the risk of being a spy, or as if _he_ were going back to a hostile father who had be to fooled at all costs—and when he had part of the crowd’s sympathy on his side, given his insult. Severus would save it for a time when the boy’s arrogance needed crushing in private.  
  
*  
  
“Harry! That’s so unfair.” Hermione was almost crying, and she hugged him so tight that Harry found it hard to talk.  
  
“I always knew Malfoy was up to no good, mate.” Ron was patting his back over and over, but mostly, his voice sounded peaceful. He’d had his suspicions about Draco proved right, Harry thought, and that was all that mattered to him.  
  
Harry himself wanted to draw his wand and start casting curses, and never stop. Or he wanted to get into an empty classroom and slam his fists into the stone the way he had after Seamus had burned his things in second year. Or he wanted to talk to someone who would _really_ understand, someone who would listen and nod and not try to tell him he was wrong for feeling things that he knew were wrong, like that Draco had abandoned him.  
  
Harry knew that wasn’t really what had happened. He _knew_ that. He had agreed with Draco that this was the way to fool the students who had only slowly got used to the idea of a friendship between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy and would easily believe that it had fallen apart again. They didn’t have to worry about the professors, who were under Dumbledore’s control as to what they would and would not notice.   
  
But he couldn’t do anything about his feelings. This had been so much harder than he imagined it would.  
  
But he couldn’t have any of those things. And he had to remember that Draco and Snape were making sacrifices, too, and if he showed too easily how devastated he was, then someone might suspect something. Like that Draco had meant more to him than Harry had allowed himself to show. So he took a rasping, sniffling breath, and rubbed his face with his hand, and said, “I don’t want to go to the Great Hall for dinner tonight. Why don’t we sneak into the kitchens, get some food, and then come out here and eat it?”  
  
“By the lake?” Hermione sounded skeptical only for a moment. Then she seemed to remember that most of the school would be inside congratulating Cedric, and she brightened. “That sounds like a great idea, Harry!”  
  
Abruptly, something soft and cold pushed against Harry’s hand. He turned around, startled and starting to lift his wand, but stopped when he saw the huge black dog standing there, panting at him and wagging its tail.  
  
Even though it was dangerous for Sirius to be out here, Harry had to laugh, a little. He had promised that he would come to see the Third Task, and he had. And there was sympathy in his eyes. Harry knew that he couldn’t expect perfect understanding, because there was no such thing, but understanding was nice.  
  
“I think someone wants to join our picnic,” he said, and looked around cautiously. Most of the school had already streamed inside. A few of the spectators had lingered to talk with the judges, but they were on the other side of the maze and didn’t seem to be paying any attention, so Harry flung his arms around Padfoot’s neck. The dog licked his face and wagged his tail so hard that Harry almost fell on the ground, because the wagging made the dog’s body wriggle, too.   
  
“Let me go get the food,” Ron said, his voice sharp with something that sounded like relief. “Harry, you stay out here with—with the dog, and I’ll—”  
  
“I’ll come with you,” Hermione said, and Harry knew she was doing it to give him and Sirius some time alone.  
  
When both his best friends were hurrying towards the castle, Harry looked around again. There were still people not far from them, so Sirius couldn’t transform yet, but that didn’t prevent Harry from leaning over and whispering into his ear, “That _hurt_. It _hurt_ so much.”  
  
Sirius licked his face, and Harry sighed. Yes, he hurt, but he’d get over it. And as long as the display kept Draco safe and convinced Lucius that his son’s heart really belonged to him, then it was worth it.   
  
*  
  
“ _Legilimens_!”  
  
Draco reeled backwards, gasping, but he held Professor Snape’s eyes, and the mental probe that snapped towards him—as darting and shining and sharp as a sword, Draco thought—fell back with an almost audible _clang_ from the mental shields he had lifted.  
  
Snape tried again, this time coming in from the side. (He had told Draco that all the ways one could imagine a mental contest were really only substitutions for what was really happening, metaphors to help him understand, but Draco thought thinking of it as a duel was useful). Draco faced the strike directly again, spinning his shields so that the probe shattered against them. Snape actually staggered for a moment. Draco lowered his eyes so that the professor wouldn’t see how pleased he was with that. Snape had graciously agreed to give up a lot of his free time for the past month to teach Draco Occlumency. The least Draco could do was not appear smug about it.  
  
He _had_ asked Professor Snape why Harry wasn’t included in the lessons, and had received a short answer about how it was absolutely unsafe for Potter to be seen around him right now. Draco reckoned he could accept that.  
  
“Excellent,” Snape said, when he could speak. Draco looked up, surprised; usually Snape attacked him twenty times before taking a break. And he never gave open compliments. But Snape stepped back now and grasped the edge of his desk, giving Draco a thin smile. “You have a natural talent for Occlumency, Draco. I hope that you continue to nurture it, because few possess it, and it will serve you well if you must meet the Dark Lord.”  
  
Draco closed his eyes. The way Harry had described _his_ meeting with the Dark Lord was enough to make him ill. “I hope I don’t have to,” he muttered.  
  
“I hope so for you as well,” Severus said. “And in truth, based on what Lucius said to me after the last meeting, it is unlikely to happen. I think he would consider it too great an honor for you at the moment.” He took a shuffling step. Draco opened his eyes and found the professor staring intently at him from a few feet away. “But if it happens, you will do anything to survive. Do you understand, Draco? Betray Potter if you must. Give up small scraps of information so that they might not suspect the deeper truth.”  
  
Draco picked at his nails, and said nothing.  
  
“ _Draco_.”  
  
“I can’t betray him,” Draco said. “That would make me feel as ill as meeting the Dark Lord.”  
  
“But if it comes to a choice between that and dying—”  
  
“I think the Dark Lord would kill me anyway, if he found out how much I was trying to help Harry.” Draco glared stubbornly at his teacher. “Even though Father wouldn’t, and won’t, because that impotency spell Harry cast means that he needs me because he can’t have another heir now. I’ll remember what you said, sir, but if you could betray him like that—well, I couldn’t.” He folded his arms and continued glaring.  
  
After another few seconds, Snape grunted and turned away, as if he hadn’t lost the staring contest. Draco dropped his arms and carefully concealed a smile.  
  
“We shall have to be grateful, I suppose, if Potter does not himself betray us, with the amount of time he’s spending with his friends and his godfather,” Snape said then, his voice sharp.  
  
Draco raised an eyebrow at the professor’s back. _What did you expect_? he wanted to say. _Harry’s forbidden from approaching us, and you made sure to ridicule him worse than ever in his first Potions class after the Dark Lord’s return. Of course he’s going to spend time with the people who care for him and can associate with him openly. Or kind of openly, in Black’s case._  
  
But he didn’t say that, both because he did still want to be gracious with Snape and because he understood the jealousy. He didn’t like it himself when he saw Harry and the Weasel laughing together. Dumbledore had decreed that it would be too dangerous for them to meet during the rest of the term, and Draco understood that, but Harry seemed able to forget it too easily. All he ever did was glare at Draco now. Draco saw no trace of the longing for their friendship in him that he felt himself.  
  
 _We’ll survive_ , he told himself. _I can meet him as soon as the autumn term starts, and that’s not long. Eight weeks. I’ll make it._  
  
Besides, he had the challenge of Lucius and the summer to get through first. He straightened his shoulders as he thought about it.   
  
_I’ll beat him. I’ll do so well that he can’t help but believe me. Of course I’ll be resentful and slip up sometimes, but he would actually be more suspicious if that didn’t happen, I think. And I can send a house-elf for Snape if things get bad._  
  
He felt a moment’s fleeting envy for Harry then, who would get to vanish into the Muggle world for the summer and not have to deal with anything like this.   
  
*  
  
“Severus.”  
  
Severus kept his arms folded as he bowed to the Dark Lord. He needed to convey a certain image to the man just as Draco needed to convey a certain image to Lucius: that of a servant who would do his duty but needed some time to remember what that duty should be.  
  
It was reasonable. Severus had served as Dumbledore’s Potions master for years, and thought that was all he would be for the rest of his life. The Dark Lord’s resurrection had come as a shock to everyone except Lucius, Wormtail, and Barty Crouch, Jr. Of course Severus would need time to recover his balance and remember the role he had last played fourteen years ago.  
  
But the Dark Lord was neither reasonable nor accustomed to listening to the excuses of others.  
  
“I had thought you would have invented more new Potions than this.” A thin, pale hand reached out and ran fingers like a spider’s over the collection of vials that Severus had placed on the table between them. Severus thought he could almost see the Dark Lord’s lip curl in disgust. He held back his indignation—could anyone else in the Dark Lord’s service have brewed twelve new potions in fourteen years?—and his own disgust behind well-composed Occlumency shields.  
  
“My lord, I invented three of them in the first year alone,” Severus replied smoothly. “Then Dumbledore—” and it didn’t take much effort to spit the name, not when his guilt and his vows to Dumbledore were what had compelled him to return to spying in the first place “—discovered what I was about through monitoring my purchases, and placed me under an Unbreakable Vow not to buy any more of the obvious poisons or even the elements like quicksilver, which, as you know, my lord, are useful for so many dangerous potions.”  
  
The Dark Lord raised his eyes and stared directly at Severus. Severus felt the skillful Legilimency probe sliding into his brain like the tongue of a poisonous snake. He flipped his shields smoothly underneath it, films of oil floating on water. He had to not only conceal his real thoughts and emotions, but make it seem as if he were concealing nothing. This was the sort of Occlumency that, so far, Draco had shown no particular talent in, but on the other hand, he was unlikely to need it. Lucius had tried to learn Legilimency in his day. He had also tried to become a Potions master. He was a resounding failure at both.  
  
In this case, Severus was telling the almost complete truth. Dumbledore had demanded only a promise of him, not an Unbreakable Vow, but he had indeed forbidden Severus to buy any more dangerous Potions ingredients if he wanted to maintain his teaching position at Hogwarts. Thinking about it lent Severus’s mind a burning, bitter flavor, like bile, and he knew that the Dark Lord would sense that.  
  
“So you made these—” The Dark Lord set aside the first three potions and tapped the other nine vials one by one. “Out of such ingredients as lavender petals, frogs’ livers, and flobberworms?” His voice plainly betrayed his disbelief.  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” Severus said, and this time it was perfect truth, without even the need for Occlumency. “I will be pleased to give you the recipes and let you see for yourself.”  
  
A bloodless smile stretched bloodless lips, and the Dark Lord stepped back from the table, stroking the coils of Nagini, who had wound about his legs and gone to sleep. “That will not be necessary, Severus. I am well pleased with your progress. Now, describe the effect of the potions, and I will decide which one will be best to use in our planned attacks.”  
  
The hint was coyly dangled in front of him, but Severus knew better than to ask for further details at the moment. He was still on thin ice in the Dark Lord’s eyes, since he had made no attempt to seek out other Death Eaters and try to arrange to find the Dark Lord’s spirit in the way that Lucius and Pettigrew had.  
  
Instead, he began to detail the potions, and his mind was not on the people who might die in the attacks—of course people would die in this war, as they had in the first one—but on Draco, who was at home right now with his father. Lucius had not been invited to this audience.  
  
 _Be well, Draco, and careful. And remember that it is better to betray Potter in a small way than to die._  
  
*  
  
“Draco.”  
  
“Father.”  
  
Lucius was walking around him with his eyes narrowed, as if he would take the opportunity to punish Draco for anything he didn’t like. Draco kept his hands folded behind his back, his head slightly bowed. Trying too openly to meet Lucius’s gaze would probably be classified as “impertinence.”  
  
Finally, Lucius stopped and said, “I understand that you openly rejected Potter and his friends during the Third Task.”  
  
“Yes, Father.” Draco had taken most seriously those lessons of Snape’s that involved keeping his voice bland and neutral. Even when he could control his expression, his real opinion always seemed to emerge in his tone of voice. Lucius had scolded him more than once for being too sarcastic.  
  
“And by doing so, you thought you could win back my good opinion?” Lucius paused with one hand on his cane, which was splayed out beside him. Draco was just glad that he’d waited until they Apparated away from King’s Cross and were standing at the gates of Malfoy Manor to display like this. It was embarrassing to think of any of his schoolmates watching his father.  
  
 _When did I become someone who thought my own father embarrassing_?   
  
But Draco didn’t have time to think about the answer to that question right now, because this was the first major test. He was lying to Lucius with almost all of his words. He was shielding his mind with Occlumency at the same time. And he was trying desperately not to think of Harry, which would bring emotions he didn’t want to deny, but had to, bubbling to the front of his mind.  
  
“I didn’t think it would,” he muttered, and slouched, sticking his hands in his robe pockets. That was the kind of thing Lucius would have snapped at him about ordinarily, but now he just stood motionless, waiting. Draco continued staring at the ground as he talked on. “But I wanted to win back your good opinion. I’m disgusted by Potter.”  
  
“Simply because he lost the Third Task?” Lucius’s voice was light. That was dangerous, Draco knew.  
  
“No.” Draco heaved a sigh that rose from the tips of his toes. He and Harry and Dumbledore had carefully planned out a sequence of events from the time that the Dark Lord came back to the end of the term, which meant that the actions he was talking about now to Lucius really had happened; the motivations behind them were different, though. “I thought about it for the whole month before that, and gradually withdrew from him. I didn’t want to. I tried to dodge the thoughts. But—you were right, Father.”  
  
“About what?” Still light, and now his stick was sweeping back and forth, in and out of the sight of Draco’s lowered eyes.  
  
“That he isn’t worthy of us,” said Draco. “That he isn’t clever enough, magically powerful enough, or important enough. If he was all those things, he would have won the Third Task, easily.”  
  
“The Second Task confirmed you as the person he most treasured.” Lucius was almost whispering now. “I do not think that you would give up your status in the eyes of the Boy-Who-Lived that easily.”  
  
Draco laughed bitterly. He was glad that he’d had Snape’s training, now. He easily found appropriate bitterness to put in his laughter. It just didn’t come from the source his father thought it did. “And what’s status, when he’ll probably lose the war?” he asked bluntly, and looked up into Lucius’s face again. “I know that the Dark Lord is more powerful, more magical, more clever. And he has pure blood, which Potter can never match, since his mother is a Mudblood.”  
  
The words ate into his own soul and heart like acid. He would have liked to stand up and scream that they weren’t true, that Harry had qualities like courage and loyalty that were better than any cleverness or magical power. But he didn’t have that luxury anymore. He wasn’t a child. He was fifteen years old. He was an adult.  
  
“All of that is true, Draco.” Lucius’s face was guarded, but his lips tilted up slightly into a pleased smile. “Still, you will forgive me if I mistrust you.”  
  
Draco nodded earnestly. “I know it’s going to be a long process to win back your trust,” he said. “But I’ll try. I can’t be Potter’s friend again, knowing what I know about how little he _tries_ to win anything.”  
  
And that was honest indignation, too. Draco was convinced that Harry could easily have won the Third Task if he’d had his mind on what he was doing. But he’d been quiet and brooding for the last month, accepting his decreased contact with Draco as if he agreed with and was even pleased about it. He didn’t care any more about winning the Triwizard Tournament.  
  
 _Stupid_ , Draco thought. _You should always care about winning, even if you think you shouldn’t, really. And Harry was better at the other Tasks than Diggory._  
  
“Then you may have another chance, Draco.” Lucius stepped out of the way and swept a mocking bow towards the Manor. “As long as you believe that _you_ can keep trying for the goals that are the real ones.”  
  
Draco nodded and paced up the gravel walk, his trunk floating behind him. He saw the door of the Manor open and his mother stand in it, looking out.  
  
She looked straight at him. And Draco’s stride almost faltered.  
  
Most of the time, Narcissa paid a minimal amount of attention to him. It had been that way ever since Draco was ten and explained to her that he didn’t want her hovering over him all the time. And she had listened to him, the way that Greg’s and Vince’s mums never would. During the holidays, she kept out of his way and only occasionally asked him if he needed help with his summer homework or if he would like some sweets.  
  
But now she looked at him, and in her eyes was determination and understanding and a sort of cool sympathy that made Draco wonder.  
  
The next moment, she was coming forwards to kiss Lucius’s cheek and shake Draco’s hand, and he could almost pretend that he had imagined it.  
  
But it made him feel a little better. Maybe he wasn’t completely alone against Lucius after all.  
  
Maybe his summer would be easier than he’d thought.  
  
 _Not as easy as Harry’s, but I can’t have everything._  
  
*  
  
His fingers were shaking.  
  
Harry wiped them absently on his trousers. That didn’t stop them shaking, of course, so he folded his hand into a fist and put it on his knee. _There_.  
  
He knew why they were shaking. The Dursleys had announced, after Sirius’s owl had nearly destroyed the kitchen, that Harry was on a schedule of three meals a week.  
  
Harry had protested, of course, but that just made the Dursleys sneer at him. He’d tried to steal food, but that just made Aunt Petunia buy locks for the kitchen cabinets and give the keys to Dudley. And the icebox had a complicated alarm system that Harry had tried several times to foil. It didn’t seem to matter; it always sounded, and then Uncle Vernon came along and yelled at him, or slapped him across the back of the head in a way that made his ears ring.  
  
Harry couldn’t afford the distraction. At least his relatives weren’t trying to work him to death this summer; maybe they were afraid that the neighbors would see how thin he was getting. He only had to take care of the garden in the early morning, clean the bedrooms and the drawing room, do the laundry, and sometimes wash Uncle Vernon’s car. They didn’t trust him in the kitchen.  
  
Most of the time, he just stayed in his bedroom, reading the books that he had managed to smuggle from his trunk before it was locked into the cupboard. And Hermione had sent him a few more, all on Defense Against the Dark Arts. Harry was determined to memorize them before he went back to Hogwarts.   
  
He didn’t have his wand, either; Uncle Vernon had made especially sure to search that out and lock it in the trunk. But he could make the movements with his hand and pronounce the incantations over and over in a whisper until he was certain he had the sounds right. (At least he didn’t have to worry about his throat getting dry; the Dursleys let him have as much water as he wanted).  
  
Hour blurred into hour, each full of dragging minutes that then leaped and dashed ahead when Harry encountered some spell he didn’t remember from his first reading of the book. He sometimes thought about stopping so that he could read about Quidditch, but in the end, he decided not to take the time to do it, the same way that he didn’t bother trying to rob the kitchen after the first several tries. He had things to _do_.  
  
Maybe, he hoped sometimes, when he was lying on his bed with his eyes shut because he felt so faint and sick from lack of food that the words on the page were swimming, if he could do well enough with the reading on his own, then Dumbledore would be impressed when he went to school. And then he would let Harry train on his own, and he wouldn’t make Harry take Occlumency with Snape.  
  
A few of the books mentioned Occlumency, because apparently, some wizards thought of Occlumency as part of the Defense Against the Dark Arts (the Dark Art in this case being Legilimency). Harry had read enough about it to know that he didn’t want Snape to use Legilimency on him. And so far, he had felt nothing through the curse scar. Sometimes—all right, every night—he had nightmares, but they were repetitions of the graveyard scene where Voldemort came back to life, or feverish fears about what might be happening to Draco at Lucius’s hands.  
  
He got used to hunger that pounded like a drum in his ears and passed through his blood like fire. He became an expert in eating in a way that left him covered with crumbs of bread or flakes of cereal, which later he would collect and eat one by one when his stomach felt as though it were contracting like a heart. He drank water until he thought he would piss himself to death.   
  
He could survive that. And he wasn’t complaining to anyone. He was doing his best to understand the sacrifices that Snape and Draco were making for him, and that more people would probably make very soon, or were already making, if Voldemort had started killing people. He would be silent, and not whinge, and train so that he was better at magic than anyone would think he would be when he was still a teenager, and then he would go out and _kill_ Voldemort.  
  
And, someday, he wouldn’t have to come back to the Dursleys. Someday, he intended to live in a house where he could eat little meals whenever he wanted.   
  
When he didn’t have nightmares of the past or the present, he dreamed of the house, and of food. He knew the large tables in the dining room, and the way they would be arrayed with whole loaves of bread, gleaming red apples, softly succulent cuts of meat, steaming pies, biscuits with bits of chocolate stuck to them, and roasted fish.   
  
Sometimes, in the sliding territory between nightmare, dream, and waking, Draco lived in the house with him.  
  
*  
  
Draco stepped out of the carriage and walked into the Great Hall with his head lifted high and his lips compressed into a thin smile. He could feel the wondering, admiring glances of other Slytherins sliding around him. Vince and Greg had met him on the train with approving nods, and they walked on either side of him now like bodyguards. Draco wondered idly if that was what they really wanted to be or if they just accepted their roles without questioning.  
  
 _Would I have accepted my role that way, if I never thought about it? Would I have been Lucius’s son and nothing else?_  
  
Thoughts like that were usual after a summer at Malfoy Manor. Draco felt as though his lungs were expanding and his body growing taller in the free air of Hogwarts. He’d spent the summer flattering his father.  
  
Lucius’s greatest weakness was his vanity. It was vanity that made him tell the truth to Harry. Otherwise, Draco thought, with a cynicism that felt as if it were truth, it would have been easier to let Harry think that Draco was the one who betrayed him. He should have done that if he really wanted his son away from the Boy-Who-Lived.  
  
Instead, he told the truth, so that both Harry and the Dark Lord would know he had been responsible for the clever plan. And he saved their friendship without knowing it. And he gave Draco a reason to stand against him, and a weapon to use against his lies.  
  
Draco slowly started talking more openly to Lucius about the Death Eaters’ beliefs, and spending more time with him, as if he didn’t like the fact that his father was right but was lured back to him against his will. And Lucius had believed it and eaten it up over and over again. By the end of the summer, though he didn’t confess secrets to Draco, he had begun to hint at impressive attacks in the future, once the Dark Lord had determined how many people were loyal to him.  
  
It wasn’t valuable information, not really, but Draco was going to tell Dumbledore anyway. And at least the lies and the lessons he’d learned from Professor Snape had helped him survive, which was the goal for the first summer.  
  
And his mother had helped, too, Draco acknowledged, as he sat down at the Slytherin table. He knew Harry was sitting almost across from him at the Gryffindor one, but he didn’t dare look at him yet, just in case he betrayed himself. He would think about Narcissa instead.  
  
She had met Draco in the library one day near the beginning of summer, where he’d gone to sit and read a book and “accidentally” encounter Lucius, who always came into the library an hour after dinner. She had shut the door behind her and stood gazing at him until Draco dragged his eyes reluctantly away from his book.  
  
“Mother?” he asked.  
  
“Lucius is best handled with pity,” she said. “With sympathy, truly, but I know you cannot feel that for him at the moment.”  
  
Draco’s mouth dropped open before he could help himself, but he laid down his book and tried to make it seem as if he’d always interested in stopping at that point. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.  
  
“Oh, Draco,” said Narcissa, and her eyes were calm and her face proud and stern as a Greek statue’s, “no pretenses between us. You live under enough of a pretense with your father. Of course you have to convince him that you’re on his side, after your incautious exposure of your true self during the school year, but you need not lie to me.” She came towards him and squeezed his shoulder, still gazing coolly into his face. “And I am telling you that a certain sympathy with Lucius is the best tool for manipulating him to one’s own ends. You cannot feel that sympathy at the moment. You are angry and hurt, and you are eager to hurt him in return. But pity him. That will do almost as well. Never forget that he is a human being with his own subjectivity, someone who has thoughts of his own. Forgetting that cost you during the school year. Remembering it will help.”  
  
“Mother,” Draco whispered, through an achingly dry throat. If he couldn’t fool Narcissa, he had to worry about how well he was fooling Lucius. “How do you know this? And—and why did you want to help me?”  
  
“I know,” Narcissa said, “because you and your father have been growing apart for years. I did think that you were trying to mend the breach at first, but you’ve been _too_ assiduous about it, not enough of a sullen teenager. And Lucius will not see that, because he wants so badly to believe that he has his son back. He will ignore certain signs of faltering—which is a good thing, because, since you have come back, you have made many mistakes.”  
  
Draco did his best to ignore the painful flaring of a blush in his cheeks, and instead stared hard at her. “And will you help me to repair those mistakes?”  
  
“My advice is meant to do that,” Narcissa said.  
  
Draco nodded. “Forgive me.”  
  
“You have not cared to know what your father or I were doing,” Narcissa said. “Perhaps now you might take more notice.” And she turned on her heel and left the library by the far door. Not two minutes later, the near one had opened to admit Lucius.  
  
Draco liked to think he had done a better job of handling his father since that day, and of appreciating his mother on the occasions when they met. She was no longer just someone who was useful only when he wanted a listening ear or a contemplative silence to surround him. Draco realized that she might have her own rationale for her actions, independently of Lucius, and he should respect that.  
  
 _All right_ , he thought, when Dumbledore had introduced the new Defense Against the Dark Arts, a plump woman named Dolores Umbridge who, Draco thought, was going to be right at home among the Hufflepuffs, _you can look now_. And he turned his head and looked at Harry.  
  
Harry was picking at his food and talking quietly with his friends. Draco frowned as he stared at him. Of course, he hadn’t expected Harry to be overjoyed to sit in the Muggle world over the summer, probably thinking about the Dark Lord and Draco’s own danger, but Harry looked worse than he had expected. His face was thin and tired, so tired that Draco wondered if he’d been getting enough sleep. And he was making too much of an effort not to look across the room and at Draco.  
  
 _All this deception will be ruined if he can’t concentrate on what he’s supposed to be doing_ , Draco thought. _Some people will notice too much care as much as they’ll notice carelessness._  
  
Then Harry did look up and at him. And Draco, even as he folded his expression into a scowl, felt a surge of relief at the way Harry’s eyes roamed over his face and seemed to compare it with some picture he’d had from the beginning of summer.  
  
 _He still misses me._  
  
Draco decided that he would have to arrange a secret meeting as soon as he possibly could. For Harry’s sake, of course.  
  
*  
  
Harry hurried towards the first floor classroom where he was supposed to meet Draco, shaking his head as he went.   
  
It had been a strange first two weeks back at school. Voldemort had attacked over the summer, Harry found, but in isolated places, and mostly he seemed to want to terrify people. He destroyed all their property but let them run away so that they could tell stories about him to others, each more terrifying than the last. He _did_ kill one person—a woman named Emmeline Vance—and feed her to his snake, a story that was told so many times you’d think there was a crowd of people there to watch him do it.   
  
The Ministry had decided that the right way to handle Voldemort’s return was to force everyone to be “unified.” The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dolores Umbridge, preached that every day in class: be unified, trust the Ministry, don’t object to any of their policies, only spread the “official” stories about Voldemort. Harry had expected all of that the first time she opened her mouth.  
  
But then she had started saying things that made him more uneasy. Things about the magical creatures who lived in the Forbidden Forest and among wizards, in places like Gringotts. The magical creatures couldn’t be trusted to be unified, at least if you listened to _her_. It was like them, Umbridge had said viciously the other day, talking so hard that spit flew out of her mouth, to go to Voldemort because he promised them “rights.” The “rights” were a delusion, of course. Magical creatures and wizards could never actually live together, and they would find that out the hard way.  
  
Harry was never sure, from the way she talked, if “the hard way” was going to be due to Voldemort or the Ministry.  
  
To Harry’s joy, Sirius had been allowed to sneak back into Hogwarts through an underground tunnel that the Marauders and their Map knew about but that no one else did, Sirius had assured Harry. He was teaching Harry extra spells that the Marauders had considered useful in dueling. Combined with the training that Harry had given himself over the summer and the way that Hermione was drilling him in private (she could never see someone studying something without deciding it was a good idea to study it herself), that meant he was becoming a good fighter. He wasn’t ready to take Voldemort on yet; no one was. But he _would_ be ready, and sooner than Dumbledore thought.  
  
Snape hadn’t said anything about Occlumency lessons or other kinds of lessons, either, and of course Harry had to glare hatefully at Draco during the day. So he hadn’t thought much about the two Slytherins as he trained with Sirius and his friends.  
  
But then, tonight, had come a message from Dumbledore: a silvery phoenix that manifested just above the bed when Harry was feeling sleepy, bowed its neck, and whispered in the Headmaster’s voice, “Young Master Malfoy would like to meet you in the deserted Defense classroom on the first floor at midnight.”  
  
And now here he was. Harry halted and looked around. He’d cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself before he left Gryffindor Tower, but he wasn’t really worried that the message had been a fake. Umbridge could be scary, but he doubted she could fake the Headmaster’s Patronus or his voice.  
  
And then he caught a glimpse of blond hair from the side of the classroom door, and smiled. Removing his own Disillusionment Charm, he stepped forwards and said in a loud whisper, “I think he’s in here!”  
  
There was a sound of panicked scrambling. Harry laughed and added in a normal voice, “I was just kidding, Draco.”  
  
Draco swore at him, and then became visible himself. “You berk, you made me think that you were a prefect,” he said.  
  
Harry made a wry face. Both Hermione and Ron were prefects this year, but Dumbledore had said in a letter that he thought it would be too much of a burden for Harry, and Harry had privately agreed. Anything that kept him from training was a burden.  
  
 _Except this._  
  
Draco stood there staring at him, so Harry reached out and hugged him. Draco took a deep breath, as if the gesture gave him permission of some kind, and then hugged Harry back. Of course, that only lasted a moment before he broke away. Harry was grateful. When Draco hugged him like that, running his hands greedily up and down his spine, it made him feel—strange.  
  
But, as it turned out, Draco wasn’t about to talk about his summer, which Harry had assumed was the reason for stepping away.  
  
“Didn’t your relatives feed you over the summer?” he demanded.  
  
 _Uh-oh_. So far, no one had suspected anything. Harry’s baggy clothes and now his robes were good at concealing him, and Sirius, even though he hugged Harry often, didn’t know that he hadn’t always been this thin. But of course Draco would notice, and the longer Harry went without answering, the more suspicious his face became.  
  
And of course Harry couldn’t tell the truth. That would be complaining, and Harry had decided that he wouldn’t complain. He _couldn’t_ , not when Draco and Snape were risking their lives.  
  
“Of course they did,” he said, and forced himself to stretch casually, as if he were proud of his body and wanted to show it off. “But I did a lot of running this month. It helped to let me avoid thinking about—things,” he added.  
  
Draco’s eyes softened at once. “Oh, I know,” he said. “I went flying more than I usually do, too.”  
  
“Well? What was it like, being with your father? Tell me about it.” Harry conjured a chair, a spell that came a lot more easily to him now than it had before the summer, turned it backwards, sat on it, and stared at Draco expectantly.  
  
Draco conjured a chair, too, glancing at Harry half-defiantly, as if to say that he knew that spell and Harry had better not think he was stupid. “Surreal,” he said, when he sat. “I mean, we both knew that I wasn’t really sincere, but I let him _think_ I was becoming sincere, and he heard what he wanted to hear. And my mum helped too, which I didn’t expect.” He shook his head with a look of wonder on his face.  
  
Harry propped his chin on his hands and bit back the temptation to ask more about Narcissa Malfoy. He knew it wasn’t wondrous to Draco, to have a mum. It was just something that had happened when he was born and probably something he wished hadn’t happened some of the time. “How?”  
  
And Draco began talking about his summer of lying, dodging, flattering, imitating his father and then looking mad about imitating him, and hinting that he wanted to learn a Death Eater’s way of life. Harry listened thirstily. It was something different from training, so different that it felt necessary instead of a distraction from it. And it let him think about something other than the nightmares that were becoming more frequent. And it let him know how Draco had survived, which was something he’d been mad to know.  
  
And it kept Draco from asking any awkward questions about how Harry’s summer had gone.  
  
Finally, it was one-o’clock, and Draco made an annoyed sound when he cast a _Tempus_ Charm that told him so. “I want to see you again,” he said, and looked at Harry with his eyes burning. “This isn’t long enough.”  
  
“You see me every day,” Harry couldn’t resist pointing out.  
  
“Like _this_ ,” said Draco, and he sounded so fierce about it that Harry couldn’t make fun of him anymore. “I need to talk to you. But I know it can’t be that soon, so I’ll send another message to Dumbledore in a fortnight or so.” He paused. “Have you seen Cho Chang at all?” he added, in what was a rotten attempt to be casual.  
  
“Er,” Harry said, and blinked. “Just in the school, the same way I’ve seen you. But, mate, I don’t really think you have a chance. She’s still dating Cedric.”  
  
“Oh, is she? That’s fine, then.”  
  
And Draco was all friendly when he sent Harry away, and insisted on hugging him again, hands _still_ running greedily up and down his spine. In fact, if Harry hadn’t coughed gently, Draco might have been content to stand there with Harry in his arms for the rest of the night.  
  
Harry did pause with his hand on the door before he left, to ask softly, “Are you all right?”  
  
“For the moment,” Draco said, and stared at him with shining eyes.  
  
Harry still thought there was something wrong with him, but he’d asked the most direct question he could think of, and so in the end he nodded and slipped out of the classroom. He hoped he would be able to resist counting the hours until he met Draco again.  
  
*  
  
Severus paced his office, now and then stopping to stare at the door.  
  
The boy was late.  
  
But then, had he really expected anything else?  
  
Severus knew Dumbledore had summoned the Potter brat to his office that afternoon and told him that he would begin Occlumency lessons with Severus tonight. He knew the boy had protested that he didn’t need the lessons, because he hadn’t felt the Dark Lord attempting to reach him through the curse scar.  
  
 _And how would he know_? Severus tapped his wand against his palm and paced faster and faster, until his robes traveled behind him with a continuous swishing sound. _Did it once occur to him that the Dark Lord can conceal his Legilimency from the likes of such a child?  
  
No. Of course not.   
  
And does the boy appreciate the sacrifices I have made over the summer_? Severus traced the Dark Mark through his robe for a moment. He could feel it all the time now, like an ache in a once-broken limb, though it did not flare with pain except when the Dark Lord summoned him. _No. Does he appreciate that I must give up some free time in which I could be brewing new potions, or devising new lies that would enable me into get into a better position in the Death Eaters’ ranks, or tutoring Draco? No._  
  
Severus could feel his anger increasing with his pace. It seemed the fragile trust he had thought Potter was acquiring in him last year had disintegrated, and it was all the brat’s fault. Not _once_ did he make a motion to apologize or put himself in a vulnerable position that would show he trusted Severus. No, he came in guarded and crouching, exactly as if Severus were the Death Eater he pretended to be. The boy would probably trust Lucius Malfoy before he would trust the “greasy git.”  
  
Someone knocked on the door.  
  
Severus clenched his hands into fists and tried to control his breathing. _A full five minutes late_. As much as he wanted to show his displeasure with the boy’s impertinence, however, he knew that Potter would probably sense what it was, and then he would report Severus in a whiny tone to Dumbledore, and Severus was not ready for such a thing.  
  
“Enter,” he said. His voice could have coated the walls with ice.  
  
Potter did. He already had his wand out, signifying that perhaps he had learned something after all in those ridiculous lessons with Black. But his chin was up and his eyes focused and defiant. He shut the door behind him and stood shifting from foot to foot as if he had swallowed a Laxative Potion.  
  
“Sir,” he said after a moment in which Severus stared at him and the room filled with a brewing, hostile silence. “I don’t think I need these lessons. If there is a link between me and Voldemort through the curse scar, I can’t feel it. Maybe he doesn’t know it’s there. Maybe he doesn’t want to use it.”   
  
“And you will risk the future of the wizarding world on a _maybe_?” Severus breathed. “I did not know you could sink in my estimation, Potter, but you have managed it.”  
  
The imbecile made an aborted motion that might have been a flinch, or might have been a raising of his arms to defend himself. In the end, however, he assumed a dueling position and waited.  
  
Severus waited, too, to see if he could inspire the boy to break the silence, but nothing happened. He nodded grudgingly and said, “Occlumency is the process of clearing the mind of thoughts and emotions, so that no enemy can detect what you are thinking. Clear your mind.”  
  
A frown appeared between Potter’s brows and he started to ask a question, but Severus cut him off impatiently. The instructions were clear enough, and Draco had mastered them the first time. Superior as Draco was to Potter in everything—talent, blood, cleverness—still, he was not so different that this ought to be a challenge for Potter. “Do as I say. _Legilimens_!”  
  
And, of course, he burst into Potter’s mind past shields that felt as thin as paper. Severus rolled his eyes as he reached a memory of the boy watching enviously as a fat blond boy, probably his cousin—he had Petunia’s look about the eyes and nose—swallowed a plate of eggs. The child carried his petty insecurities with him even into ordinary memories. _Does he have any that are_ not _about what he wants and the people who frustrate him from getting it? Doubtless he had a fine breakfast and simply wanted a second helping, which his aunt responsibly denied to him._  
  
“Pathetic, Potter,” he said, pulling back and glaring at the boy, who had his head bowed and his breath coming fast, as if the intrusion had hurt. Severus knew well that the headaches from the unexpected infliction of Legilimency were nothing compared to what the boy would suffer if the Dark Lord tried to possess him. “You must do better than this. _Clear your mind_.”  
  
“I don’t know how to do that!” Potter glared up at him with flashing green eyes, and Severus found himself unexpectedly relaxing. Yes, he had missed the impertinence that the boy showed him, God knew why. “You tell me that, but you don’t tell me _how_ , and you don’t tell me _why_ it works—”  
  
“I did tell you why it works,” Severus snapped, his patience vanishing again. _The boy’s arrogance has increased from spending time with Black_. A roaring tide of jealousy soured him, and his voice was brittle, and he knew it, and he hated it, when he said, “Without thoughts in your mind, your enemy cannot reach them.”  
  
“But I can’t just go around _not thinking_ all day long—”  
  
The opportunity for an insult was so fine that Severus could not pass it up. “Why not? You seem to manage quite well on an everyday basis.”  
  
The boy only glared at him, and Severus attacked again, because the boy would need to understand that the battle would not courteously pause to wait for him whilst he sorted himself out. “ _Legilimens_!”  
  
This time, it was a memory of eating a bit of apple, followed by a bowl of porridge. Severus pulled out with an oath and a disgusted expression. “Do all your memories revolve around food, Potter?” he taunted. _The boy has to learn, has to understand, that he will never survive if he clings to the sort of nonsense that Black has stuffed his head full of_. “I believe Draco thinks about other things on occasion.”  
  
“Yes,” Potter said; this time, his tone was spiteful. “He thinks about me. And that hurts you, doesn’t it, Snape?”  
  
Severus hurled the full force of his skill behind the blow this time, something he would not have done had the brat not angered him. But the boy was asking for it, practically jumping up and down and chanting that only an assault like a thunderstorm would work on him. He deserved any pain he got from this.  
  
Severus tore through what felt like a desperate, cloudy attempt to shield a central core of Potter’s mind, and this time summoned a series of memories all at once, to show that he could. He could make his taunting comments resound inside Potter’s mind, if he tried hard enough. _Let the boy see someone standing back and giving him a different perspective on his life. Perhaps it will encourage him to keep that life instead of risking it so madly!_  
  
And thus he saw the memories of that summer.  
  
The boy desperately tore at a bowl of cereal and a plate of toast, only to have someone knock on the door. “You know you should have been done with that already,” said Petunia’s nasal voice. “You ate only last Thursday; what’s wrong with you?”  
  
Potter shook with the exhaustion and deadly, choking weight that Severus knew was typical of starvation, but still he picked up a Defense Against the Dark Arts book and began to study again.  
  
Potter stood in front of a mirror, clad in trousers but no shirt, and looked with resignation at his ribs, which were clearly defined against his skin, and his stomach, which protruded slightly. Then he shook his head and reached for the shirt, as if ignoring the evidence of hunger would make it go away.  
  
“That’s _it_!” yelled a purple-faced man into Potter’s face. Potter leaned backwards, his hands gripping a table, his eyes downcast. Around him was a scattering of broken bowls and plates and cups. “That ruddy owl wasted _too much food_! And so does that other ruddy owl upstairs! You aren’t getting more than three meals a week for the rest of the summer, boy. Maybe _that_ will teach you to respect the consequences and do as you’re told!”  
  
Severus had heard enough.   
  
He broke free of Potter’s mind and opened his eyes to stare at the brat. Potter clutched the sides of his head, his eyes blinking as if the light hurt them. Severus clamped his lips together. He knew the signs of a migraine. He had gone too far.  
  
Still, it was better for him to have learned what he had. He was appalled—partially at his own blindness. When he looked at Potter, really _looked_ at him and not at the image of Gryffindorish stupidity in his mind, he could see the unnatural thinness of his limbs and the way his robes puddled around him. He was not a normal fifteen-year-old boy, and with Hogwarts’s meals, he certainly should have been. Probably he was still not recovered from the tortures of his summer.  
  
Those memories, combined with the other memories of a much younger but still hungry Potter, spoke to a pattern of on-going abuse. And Potter had never said anything, never let slip more than a casual bitter comment which suggested that he blamed the Muggles for what had happened to him. Severus had been on the road of putting things together, but he had turned away from it when the Dark Lord rose again.  
  
 _No, even before that_ , he thought, remembering last year. He had become so frustrated with Potter’s slow rate of learning Potions that he had chosen to disregard everything the boy _had_ learned—and what Severus had learned about him in return.  
  
“Pot—Harry,” he said gently. He would need to change things, and to signal that, he would do something he had never done before and call the boy by his first name.  
  
“Fuck you, Professor.”  
  
Potter’s voice was flat and unemotional. His hands clamped to his head, he turned and wandered in the general direction of the door.  
  
“I am sorry,” said Severus, speaking the apology before he thought about it, to get it out of the way. “But now that I know about this, we can go to Dumbledore. He will ensure—”  
  
Potter laughed loudly, and then winced, as if the sound echoing around his head was not pleasant. Of course it wasn’t, Severus thought, glad that he, at least, had kept his voice low and gentle. “No, he won’t,” he said. “He told me that I had to go there because it has blood wards, and he didn’t dare take on the duty of protecting me because of something that happened to someone else he was protecting. Sirius can’t do it because he’s a fugitive, and Remus can’t do it because he’s a werewolf. So there’s nothing that can change.” Something like pride entered his voice. “Besides, I wasn’t complaining. You and Draco are doing your part for the war, and I can do mine.”  
  
“Suffering like this does nothing to help the war,” Severus said, more appalled than before. _I had no idea he had interpreted Dumbledore’s instructions to get ready to fight the Dark Lord in such a way_. “If anything, it makes you more unfit for the war, by potentially injuring you. Starvation has permanent effects on the human body and mind, Harry.”  
  
“Oh, stop talking as if you care,” Potter said, and squinted at Severus over his shoulder with one watery eye. “I _know_ you don’t. You’re Draco’s teacher, not mine. Which is fine. But this is why these lessons won’t work. I’ve read a bit about Occlumency, you see. You need me to trust you to really get into my mind and show me how to build up the shields. And I don’t. I never will. Because you hate me. So just tell Dumbledore that they won’t work and you can stop teaching me and we’ll both be happy, all right?” He fumbled the door open and stepped into the corridor.  
  
Severus followed him, unable to comprehend what he was hearing. “Something still must be done to change your home situation,” he said.  
  
“Why? I’m away from the Dursleys for another ten months, and this time I’ll take food with me when I go there.” Harry gave him an incurious glance and turned away.  
  
His reaction kept Severus pinned in place, watching the boy out of sight. It was only long minutes later that he understood.  
  
 _Abuse has produced indifference and distrust in him, to the point that he expects nothing from any adult. He is uninterested in efforts to better his situation because he believes they will always be dropped or not work.  
  
And I must do something about that.   
  
Despite my lack of any plans. Despite the fact that the boy will only mistrust me even more if I breathe a word of this to anyone.  
  
I must do something.  
  
Lily, I was blind, inexcusably so. But I will do something to help him. I promise._


	15. Struggle

  
Harry found a dark little alcove down the corridor from Snape’s office and tucked himself into it. Darkness seemed to be the only thing that would help his head, and at least as long as he huddled down and closed his eyes, he wasn’t walking anymore, and reflections of the torches couldn’t sway in front of him.  
  
His head still hurt, though.  
  
 _Greasy git Snape_ , he thought, but he wasn’t really angry, even as he drew his wand and cast a Soothing Charm that Sirius had taught him so he could help the injuries of comrades on the battlefield. He was tired instead. _What else did I expect? He isn’t content to make the lessons a disaster. He has to hurt me._  
  
 _And he has to find out about—that._  
  
But Harry didn’t even have the strength to be upset about it right now. He knew that Snape wouldn’t tell it to anyone else, because then they would have to wonder how he learned it. His Slytherins would start suspecting something if the Potions professor who “hated” Harry Potter somehow knew his most intimate secrets. McGonagall would bristle and charge in to defend Harry, and surely Snape didn’t want to deal with _her_. (Harry didn’t want to deal with McGonagall on a rampage, either, and he had seen the threat of her cow Sirius like he was a puppy). Dumbledore would nod and stroke his beard thoughtfully and say something about how Harry had to stay with the Dursleys anyway.   
  
So Snape wouldn’t betray Harry’s secrets because doing that would just be stupid and he would endanger himself. And if there was one thing Harry trusted Snape to be, it was self-interested.  
  
The Soothing Charm had helped a bit. Harry could open his eyes and stand up without feeling as if he wanted to vomit or faint, at least. He wobbled, put a hand on the wall, and decided that he would have to walk up to Gryffindor Tower like this.   
  
_And avoid Sirius_. Sirius would just get angry if he saw Harry, and unlike Ron and Hermione, he wouldn’t assume it was the normal effect of a detention with Snape. And he would ask questions, and there would be conflicts, and Harry didn’t want that. At least Snape was doing a fine job as a mentor to Draco. He should be able to stay in that position, instead of being turned into a toad or sacked because he had cut Sirius up and used his liver in potions.  
  
Harry was so busy wondering what kind of potions would use an Animagus’s liver that he didn’t hear the soft footsteps or the swish of robes behind him until it was too late to hurry away. Not that he could have anyway, he thought, as he turned around defensively and immediately received a stabbing pain like an icepick through his forehead between his eyes. He groaned and put a hand over his scar.  
  
“Potter,” said Snape, and then he took a deep breath and spoke as if he had to forcibly remind himself of what had happened between them. “Harry.”  
  
That reassured Harry, at least. Snape was not really sorry, not really changed. He sounded as if speaking Harry’s first name was a physical effort. “Snape,” he said, in exactly the same tone, and turned around again to walk away. He would cast another Soothing Charm as soon as he had climbed a staircase. Sirius said they should never be cast within five minutes of each other.  
  
“Harry,” said Snape.  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. _His vocabulary is getting as bad as Dudley’s, if that’s all he can think of to say_. “Will this take long?” he asked, not having to feign a yawn. “Only I have a Potions exam to study for tomorrow, you see.”  
  
“You have never studied—”  
  
 _Yes, familiar Snape back again_. Harry felt fully justified in continuing to walk away.  
  
With a jabbing of his nose like an angry vulture picking at its prey, Snape swirled over to stand in front of him again. Harry stopped walking and stared up at him, calmly unimpressed. Snape had done the worst he could do. He had learned the worst he could. And Harry had already worked out all the reasons that Snape wouldn’t tell anyone else. What in the world did he think he had _left_ to threaten Harry with?  
  
“Did you not think that it would be wise to get a headache potion from me?” Snape asked. He held out a vial with a thick liquid in it that would probably kill Harry in seconds. “Or an assurance from me that you will be got out of that vile house and the care of those vile Muggles as soon as possible?”  
  
After all the times that that had been promised and not delivered—by teachers who had noticed something off with his behavior, by Uncle Vernon if he just “behaved himself and stopped his freakiness,” by Sirius who kept telling him stories of what would happen when they finally caught Wormtail—Harry was irritated that hope could still rise in him. He pushed it away. “I’d have thought you’d like them,” he muttered. “They’re doing what you wished you could do to me, aren’t they? You should be cheering them on. And I’m not taking a headache potion you brewed even if the only alternative is having a headache for a whole month.” His head throbbed then, and he had to control the impulse to crumple over in agony. He hadn’t showed Uncle Vernon that he was hurting or hungry. He wasn’t going to show that to Snape, either.  
  
 _Greasy git that you are_ , he thought, and lifted his head so that he could defiantly look Snape in the eye.  
  
*  
  
Severus had to breathe hard to control his rage. How _dare_ the boy cast doubt on his brewing skills? The headache potions he offered would work whether or not the person taking them believed they would, which was more than Severus could say for some of his “colleagues” at St. Mungo’s.  
  
And then he caught himself.   
  
Not that it was easy, he thought, staring at the boy’s thin face and sunken eyes—perfectly obvious when one knew what one was looking for, but not so obvious outside that. He still saw James when he peered at—Harry. The eyes were the strongest link to Lily, and he had managed to ignore them for years. He still thought the boy put less effort into Potions than he could have, did not offer sufficient gratitude for such things as Severus’s apology to him in the office, and disowned his brain on numerous inappropriate occasions. Harry could be better than he was. He could be a rival to Draco. And yet, he refused to _try_. He had absorbed the dogma of the Sorting Hat so thoroughly that ambition was anathema to him.  
  
 _And your prejudices are charging ahead of you again_ , Severus reminded himself, as rage once more sped his breathing.  
  
They would probably continue to do so, Severus admitted, as he gazed at the boy. The brat. The imbecile. Potter. Harry. No matter how much he disliked it, he still saw James there, and he saw someone whose failures were his own, not his father’s, and could have been remedied without much work. Severus would have understood a genuine lack of talent. Apathy he could not understand.  
  
But the fact remained that he had been _wrong_. The starvation was an objective thing, something that had happened and affected Potter’s body and brain. Severus did not have to adopt Harry’s perspective on it to acknowledge it.  
  
He had not known it, though he could have seen it. He had been wrong.  
  
He hated being wrong—not least because it meant he would have to refactor so many different calculations he had made regarding the boy, and adopt this new fact into an array of knowledge he had been certain was closed. Oh, he had expected to learn new things about Potter, but only as reflections or deepenings of those facts he already knew—a difference of degree, not of kind.  
  
He had been wrong.  
  
To move himself past that, he would need to keep the new fact in front of his eyes at all times and try to be a _bit_ more civil with Potter. To persuade Harry to trust him. He would make long, slow advances before he arrived at a tenth of the trust he deserved, he knew, but he was willing to do it now, and that made the difference.  
  
“I have never wished to starve you,” he said at last, because that was the one of the boy’s assertions which he felt most competent to respond to and respect at the moment.  
  
“Oh, come off it, Snape.” Harry yawned at him, and then winced and lightly tapped his temple, as if even that movement had increased his headache. “Maybe not starvation, but you’ve wished you could hurt me and get away with it.” He gave Severus a lopsided smile and tapped his head harder. “And now you have. Congratulations.”  
  
“I did not mean to do that,” Severus said, and his voice grated in spite of himself. Did the boy wish a _second_ apology? Did he not know how rare it was to win even one from Severus?  
  
“You could have fooled me.” Potter leaned one shoulder on the wall and yawned at him again.  
  
“Do not yawn!” Severus could have regretted his bark when Potter flinched and ducked his head—it had probably increased the pain pounding between the boy’s eyes—but it was Potter’s fault for making him do it. “You are hurting yourself on purpose,” Severus continued angrily, softening his voice a _bit. If he persists in stupidity, not all the starvation in the world can make me regard him as intelligent_. “I will not have that. And for the same reason, I will not allow you to remain silent about what your relatives have done to you,” he added, thinking that the boy would understand that connection. It could hardly be more obvious.  
  
“Oh, you’re going to tell? Who?” The boy yawned deliberately again. “They’ll wonder how you got the information, you know. What excuse are you going to make up so that you can go on spying?”  
  
Severus licked his lips. He did not understand Potter’s response. The boy did not—seem angry about what his relatives had done to him, and it was up to Severus, as the only person other than Potter and the Muggles who knew about this, to find out why. “I will tell those who should know, who are manifestly on our side,” he said. “Dumbledore—”  
  
“Who told me that there was no one else to care for me, and that I had to go back to them.” Harry folded his arms and eyed Severus as if he were an interesting species of flobberworm. “Try again.”  
  
Severus closed his eyes and massaged his own temples. It had been a long time since anger had given him a headache. Black was the next natural choice, but out of the question; even if he believed Severus, which was doubtful, he would attempt to kill the Muggles, and Harry needed him alive more than he needed him in prison. “I will tell Draco—”  
  
“You _won’t_.”  
  
Severus snapped his eyes open. The boy was standing in front of him, staring at him with eyes more black than green, and around him vibrated a subtle hum of power. Severus swallowed. _Accidental magic._ Usually, by this point in a wizarding child’s development, such magic was well-trained and would not burst out in a wild flare, but abuse was not usual, and neither was the way that, it seemed, Potter had grown up in absolute ignorance of his magical heritage; the lack of other possessions from his parents rather argued that.  
  
“You won’t,” Harry whispered, his voice a literal growl now. Severus knew it was only the magic making it so, and that the Dark Lord had more of a claim to cause fear, but still he fought the urge to step back. “Draco has too many burdens already. He’s fighting just to survive, and to keep his father unsuspicious. He really wants to meet with me, but he won’t because he knows it will endanger us both. He’s undergoing a harder year than either you or me. You _leave him alone_.”  
  
Severus had to pause because, before anything else, the fierce protectiveness in Harry’s voice startled him. A few remarks Dumbledore had made and the way that Draco’s eyes were always glued to Potter if he didn’t watch himself came together in his mind then, and formed a new picture.  
  
 _A second fact I have got wrong._  
  
It irritated him, and his voice came out more snappishly than he had intended. “Draco would wish to know that you are in pain, you stupid child—”  
  
“But he can’t do anything about it, and it would only distract him.” The hum of Potter’s accidental magic was subsiding now, at least, as though he imagined he had made some unanswerable argument. “The way that these Occlumency lessons are a distraction from my training. So we’ll give them up, and you can go on hating me, and everything will be the way it was before.” He nodded his head a few times.  
  
And a third fact came along. _I have no chance of gaining his trust unless I think of a different tactic entirely. He is further from me than I realized—into the territory of regarding his abuse as normal and unexceptional._  
  
“Harry,” Severus whispered.  
  
“You don’t have the right to call me that,” Harry snapped, with a viciousness that made Severus sting although there was no magic associated with it. “I never got to hear my parents calling me that. I can’t remember it. So _you_ don’t get to call me that.” He turned around and walked up the stairs from the dungeons with immense dignity.  
  
Severus, left in place standing at the foot of them, closed his eyes and massaged his temples again, but this time for a different reason.  
  
Not only did he have no idea how to go about rescuing Harry, the ideas that immediately formed in his head were architectures of ash that needed to be dashed to pieces, based on the way that Harry had reacted to mention of Draco and Dumbledore.  
  
And Severus was _still_ wrong.  
  
 _Three new facts in the space of an hour. How many more will there be? How far away, in truth, am I held from helping Harry and keeping my vow to Lily_?  
  
A newer and even more unwelcome thought stooped on him then.  
  
 _And how much of the distance between us is my own fault_?  
  
*  
  
Draco didn’t know what had happened to Harry in the month or so since they’d last been able to meet—Dumbledore had judged it too dangerous for them to meet again after only a fortnight—but he knew he didn’t like it.  
  
Harry came into the classroom with a set, tense face, hugged Draco without seeming to notice he was there, and then sat down across from him and listened to Draco’s efforts to fool his father without a word. Without a _word_. The last time they’d met, even though Draco had been the one to talk for an hour, Harry at least made little grunts and nods and asked questions in the appropriate places. Now he listened, and it was eager listening, like the words were water that he needed to ride out thirst, but he didn’t _respond_.  
  
And Draco needed a response.  
  
He tried to think of why, but it only made him irritable, the way that half his thoughts concerning Harry lately did. One night he’d missed six hours or so of sleep because he’d lain awake worrying that Harry might be dating Chang on the sly and lying about it to him. And then he had lost another hour because he tried to figure out why this worried him so much, and he couldn’t. Did he have some kind of attraction to the girl? He couldn’t find one, but the worry wouldn’t go away.  
  
He could do something about _this_ , though.  
  
So he finished the story of how he’d sent a half-groveling, half-prideful letter to Lucius as quickly as he could, and then stared at Harry and said, “Talk.”  
  
Harry blinked like someone waking up from hypnotism, or Draco’s father after he’d related some deed of the Dark Lord’s. “Talk?” he asked helplessly.  
  
“Yes,” Draco said, his worry making him snap. “That motion where you flap your lips and your tongue and your teeth and noise comes out.”  
  
Harry promptly crossed his eyes, opened his mouth, and started making random gabbling noises as hard as he could.  
  
“Prat,” Draco said, laughing in spite of himself. “I just realized that you’ve barely said a word about how your summer went, or what you’ve been doing whilst we had to glare at each other across the room.” He pushed his chair closer to Harry, who looked unaccountably nervous, as if he thought that talking about those things might somehow add to the burden of fooling his parents that Draco had to bear. “So talk about it.”  
  
“Well, you’ve seen a lot of it,” Harry said, after some consideration. “I’m still doing badly in Potions, all right in Care of Magical Creatures, and I’d do better in Defense Against the Dark Arts if we ever got to cast a bloody _spell_.” He shoved his hair out of his eyes and glared holes in the wall behind Draco.  
  
Draco relaxed. This was more like the Harry he knew, whilst the one that listened to him so intently was like the apathetic Harry of second year. “I can’t decide what Umbridge’s game is,” he said.  
  
“Oh, I can.” Harry was practically snarling; his hands clenched into fists in front of him as if he’d like to strangle someone. “She wants us to be perfectly trained little Ministry pets, and she promises she’ll teach us ‘unknown magic’ to get people so curious about it that they’ll do anything she says.”  
  
Draco leaned back in his chair and looked at his friend appraisingly. (And even the word “friend” had the power of irritating him sometimes, especially when Blaise was asking why he and Harry weren’t friends anymore, and Draco didn’t know why the irritation any more than he knew “why” about the rest of it). “That’s a good analysis. I hadn’t thought of it that way before.”  
  
Vague alarm flickered across Harry’s face, but was gone almost instantly. Draco doubted he would have noticed it if he hadn’t spent a whole summer watching his father’s every expression so that he could tell what he was feeling at the moment. “Well, Sirius said something about why she promised unknown magic,” he said, and rolled a shoulder. “It’s obvious when you think about it.”  
  
“Not always to me,” Draco said quietly. For some reason, he felt they were coming up to the heart of what was troubling Harry. He wanted to pursue it. Maybe if he kept quiet, Harry would talk to fill the silence and Draco could find out what was wrong.  
  
Harry licked his lips for a moment. Then he said, “And she’s been concentrating on me especially in our Defense class. I reckon she thinks that if the Boy-Who-Lived supports the Ministry, a whole lot of other people will, too.”  
  
“That makes sense,” said Draco. “What have you been doing to show that you _don’t_ support her?”  
  
A wicked grin curled Harry’s lips and made Draco’s stomach drop. He shook his head at himself in annoyance. Why did he feel like he wanted to faint when he was sitting down? And when Harry wasn’t as frightening as Lucius?  
  
“Making little speeches of my own in Gryffindor Tower,” he said. “Telling everyone who’ll listen that she’s a Ministry plant, and Fudge only wants our mindless loyalty. Teaching—” And he swallowed and broke off.  
  
“Harry,” Draco said. He felt the urge to push his chair closer again, and this time, he didn’t fight it. “Tell me.”  
  
“It’s something that could be dangerous for you to know,” Harry said, staring at him in worry. The expression fit naturally on his face, the way it hadn’t last year. Draco wondered how many times Harry had been looking worried lately. It must have been when he wasn’t around to see it, since Harry was mostly scowling or laughing when Draco looked at him. “I don’t want you to get in trouble with Lucius.”  
  
“Lucius isn’t a Legilimens,” Draco said, confident that Harry would know what he was talking about since Professor Snape had mentioned Harry taking Occlumency lessons in passing.   
  
“But Voldemort is.” Harry’s hand found his and squeezed it. Draco licked his lips. It was suddenly hard to breathe. “I don’t want you to have to hide this from him. I don’t think you could do it.”  
  
Insulted, Draco narrowed his eyes. “Why not?” he demanded.  
  
“I mean—it’s not that I don’t think you’re good at Occlumency.” Harry ran a distracted hand through his hair, and Draco had to bite his lip so he wouldn’t tell him to leave it alone. “It’s that I think Voldemort is a better Legilimens.”  
  
Draco squeezed his hand and let it go. He did understand, probably better than Harry knew; because he never talked about Occlumency and Legilimency, Draco had no idea how far advanced he was in it. Perhaps he had no idea about sliding barriers and transparent walls and winds of nothingness and how difficult it was to keep one’s thoughts shielded behind such things whilst a probe flailed and crashed against them.  
  
And the Dark Lord would be more subtle than Snape in his Legilimency. Yes, Draco could see why both the professor and Harry were concerned.  
  
“All right,” he said. “Let’s talk about something else, then.” Harry brightened. “I want to hear more about what your summer was like. Are the Muggles noticing the Dark Lord at all? Or do they just think that he’s something else, a series of natural disasters or something?”  
  
“They don’t notice him at all that I heard.” Harry snorted. “Sometimes the attacks happen on Muggle property, but my relatives would sniff each time and say that the people who were hurt deserved it for being strange.”  
  
“Well,” Draco said without thinking, “maybe they deserved it, but not for that reason.”  
  
Harry spun around to face him, looking as if he were poised to hit Draco. “What do you mean?” he demanded softly.  
  
“Well,” Draco said, blinking at him, “their blood. The Dark Lord thinks he should kill them because they’re half-bloods and Mu—”  
  
“ _Don’t say it_.”  
  
Draco stared helplessly at Harry, who had narrowed eyes and flared nostrils, as if he believed that he needed to defend someone standing behind him. _Probably Granger_ , Draco thought in resentment. Since they couldn’t spend a lot of time together now, he had no time to explain to Harry about blood beliefs and how they really weren’t as restrictive as he thought they were and made a lot of sense.  
  
“All right,” he said calmly. “I won’t. But the Dark Lord does think that, and that’s the reason they’re dying.”  
  
“Or being attacked.” Harry leaped to his feet and began to pace around the classroom. Draco watched him, wishing he wasn’t so far away, and wishing he knew why he wanted Harry to be closer. “I don’t know how many deaths there have been so far. The newspaper’s on the Ministry’s side as usual, and of course Umbridge preaches about the deaths but keeps the numbers secret to frighten us.” He swung around at the far end of the classroom and stared past Draco at the wall the way he’d been doing earlier, as if he didn’t really see him, sucking fiercely at his teeth all the while. “I _wish_ I knew, because then I’d know something more about what Voldemort is capable of, and maybe what he wants.”  
  
“But why do _you_ have to know?” Draco asked, swinging his legs. “I mean, Professor Snape should, and Dumbledore would want to, and maybe Professor McGonagall.” From certain things the professor had let slip, it seemed she’d fought in the first war. Draco couldn’t quite believe that, though. Her prissy fussiness had no place on a battlefield. “But you don’t have to know unless Voldemort comes after you directly.”  
  
Harry’s face took on a haunted, hunted expression that Draco had sometimes seen in the mirror that summer after a whole day of trying to placate Lucius. “I can’t tell you that, either,” he said in a muffled voice. “I’m sorry, Draco.”  
  
Draco gripped the back of his chair, a surge of anger taking him by surprise. “Why _not_?”  
  
“Because Dumbledore told me not to.” Harry looked at him with wistful, searching eyes that made Draco hope he would change his mind for a moment, but his voice was firm when he continued. “He told me not to tell even Ron and Hermione.”  
  
“‘Even’ your friends?” Draco jumped to his feet and wrapped his arms tight around himself, the anger and the worry joining together in a thick emotional wave that tried to paralyze his tongue. But he still fought through it and talked, because he had to. “So I’m not worthy to be considered in the same category as them, am I?”  
  
“I _don’t_ consider you in the same category as them!” Harry stared at him. “But not because you’re not worthy.”  
  
Draco paused, and felt some of the mingled emotion drain away. Harry was saying Draco was special, that he was important in a way Harry’s closest Gryffindor friends weren’t. For some reason, that suited Draco even more than Harry’s claiming Draco was his best friend instead of the Weasel.  
  
 _Someday I’ll have to figure out all these ‘some reasons’ I don’t really understand_ , he decided, and then shook his head to get rid of some of the thick crowding thoughts. “All right,” he said. “But I wish you could tell me.”  
  
Harry came up and shook his hand. “Thanks for understanding,” he said. “And I wish the same thing.”  
  
Draco tried not to preen, but that was another thing it was getting difficult not to do around Harry.  
  
*  
  
“Right!”  
  
But Harry had learned something about the way that Sirius taught dueling by now. He dodged left instead, and the stone beside him blew up with an impressive explosion.  
  
“Left!”  
  
And now it was time to run straight ahead, and leave Sirius’s Blasting Curse to burst uselessly behind him whilst Harry rammed Sirius in the chest with his head. Sirius fell over, laughing and cursing and trying to keep hold of his wand, but Harry cast the Disarming Charm and the wand soared into his hand.  
  
Laughing still, Sirius rolled over and held out a hand. Harry shook his head and levitated Sirius to his feet instead. The first four times he’d tried to help him up, Sirius had pulled him down instead, locked his arms around Harry’s neck, and announced his own victory. When Harry protested, Sirius proclaimed a solemn rule that whoever was left standing at the end of the battle was the victor, whether or not they had their wand with them. So, since then, Harry had been wise and kept far away from Sirius when it seemed he’d lost.  
  
And he “lost” more and more often with Harry. Harry didn’t think his magic was actually growing stronger, but it was certainly growing better-trained. He could do things more rapidly and with less effort that he’d been able to cast simple Levitation and Light Charms at the beginning of the term. He understood the way that curses and their defenses fit together, and why they worked—on an instinctive level, not on a theoretical level. Sirius had admitted that he wasn’t up to teaching Harry the theoretical part of Defense Against the Dark Arts.  
  
Harry told him not to worry about it. All the extra reading he’d done over the summer and under Hermione’s tuition meant that he had a good grasp on theory.   
  
And that meant he’d been ready to become a teacher in his own right, so he’d started a small group of students working under him in the Room of Requirement—which Remus had told him about—whenever he could. Harry found he understood the things he learned better when he taught them to someone, and sometimes he actually corrected a problem that had been in the way of his own training, like the wrong grip on a wand or a slurred pronunciation.  
  
It wasn’t just for him, of course. If the training sessions let one of his friends survive when Death Eaters stormed the school, Harry thought the long hours of coming up with spells to test and practicing them on his own were worth it.  
  
 _Whether or not I survive against Voldemort._  
  
And because a realistic version of the final battle was that he wouldn’t, Harry had been trying to get used to that idea, too.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
Sirius was staring at him, head cocked to the side, and looking worried. Harry shook his head and gave him a smile that was as bright and cheery as he could make it. Sirius had enough to worry about with both the Ministry and Voldemort hunting him; apparently Voldemort took it personally that Sirius had located Pettigrew over the summer and almost killed him before more Death Eaters show up.  
  
 _Or he wants to kill Sirius because Sirius is important to_ you, said the voice of his thoughts.  
  
 _I don’t care about that right now_ , Harry snapped at the voice. No, the more important thing at the moment was to keep Sirius from worrying.  
  
“Just wondering whether or not I should introduce that one to the Army,” he said, and Sirius relaxed.  
  
“Of course you should! This isn’t some kind of honorable war. We have to fight dirty if we’re going to survive.” Sirius brandished his wand at an invisible enemy in the corner of the Room of Requirement.  
  
“We?” Harry asked quietly.  
  
“Yes, of course, the Order—” Sirius sighed and dropped his arm. “Right. Dumbledore asked me not to talk to you about that.”  
  
Harry nodded in resignation. He reckoned Dumbledore thought that Harry had heard enough information with the prophecy and the fact that Draco and Snape were spies; he had dropped hints about an Order but confirmed nothing, and Harry knew for a fact that sometimes Professor McGonagall went to meetings with other people in the Headmaster’s office. And now Dumbledore was avoiding Harry.   
  
_Because he thinks that Voldemort could reach through the curse scar and learn what I know?_  
  
Harry shifted uneasily. It was true that he hadn’t felt Voldemort doing that, but also true that Voldemort might be subtle enough to avoid sending any signals.  
  
But the alternative was Occlumency lessons with Snape, and Harry had already decided that no price was great enough to make him go back to that.  
  
“Well, I know you have an appointment with the Army now,” Sirius said, elaborately checking his watch. “And I have an appointment with a werewolf who’ll be overwrought if I’m five minutes late.” He winked at Harry, cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, turned into a dog, picked up his wand in his mouth, and scampered out the door with a faint click of nails and a shadowy motion that might have been a wave of his tail.  
  
Harry leaned against the wall for a minute after Sirius was gone. He was tired. It seemed like he always had a hundred things to think about, even though he’d numbered them once and it was just fifty. Learning all these spells, lessons with Sirius, teaching Ron and Hermione and the others in the Army, wondering when Umbridge would step up her “recruitment” efforts and try to publicly force Harry to agree with the Ministry, dreaming about Voldemort, trying to keep up with news, worrying about Draco and Snape…  
  
But he could do it if Draco and Snape could. No one was going to say that he was a complainer or arrogant and couldn’t do his part of the work.  
  
Someone knocked on the door. Harry started and turned around. That would be Ron and Hermione and the rest, of course. Since Umbridge wasn’t teaching them in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Harry had to train anyway, they’d started this little group. “Come in,” he called.  
  
*  
  
It was easy enough to infiltrate Potter’s little group. The students came into the Room of Requirement under Disillusionment Charms; Severus only had to slip one over his own head, ensure that no one brushed against his robe or looked at his shadowy shape for too long, and then find a corner out of the way the moment he was inside the Room.  
  
It resembled a simple dueling chamber, with shielded walls that would not bounce curses back at the participants, the occasional mattress to fall on, and no sharp corners. Severus felt his mouth pull into a grimace as he considered it. _He_ would train someone like Potter, who had a need to know much more Dark magic than the simple Black would ever teach him or allow him to learn, in a more realistic environment: with treacherous ground underfoot, corners projecting as a menace and an offer of shelter, and the occasional mirror or pool of water that would reflect the magic back as happened in nature.  
  
 _The way that you trained him before_?   
  
Severus snarled, not wanting to remember the Dark Arts lessons he had once given Harry in his office, because then he would have to remember how those lessons had dissolved into useless pandering, and then turned his attention to the “instructor.”  
  
Potter stood with his hands at his sides, surveying the small group in front of him with narrowed eyes that he probably imagined were “expert.” Severus had already swept them with his own gaze, and what he saw caused them to sneer. They were all the Gryffindors of Potter’s year save Finnigan, a few Ravenclaws—led by the Lovegood girl—the most arrogant Hufflepuff it had ever been Severus’s displeasure to encounter, Zacharias Smith, and the youngest Weasley. Each of them stood in an awkward parody of a dueling stance. Longbottom was the worst, unsurprisingly.  
  
 _This_ was the group Potter thought would survive conflict with the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, if matters came to that pass? They would be better off depending on their guardians to take them from the school before that happened.  
  
“Good evening,” Potter said quietly. “All right. Last time, we practiced the Patronus Charm. How many of you have made progress since then?”  
  
 _The Patronus Charm_? Severus suffered a moment of incredulity. He had come to see what Dark Arts knowledge Potter dared to spread around the school, and he found the boy teaching something he had learned in his third year?  
  
He watched, still silent, still disbelieving, as Potter made the rounds of his “students,” adjusting the grip on their wands some of the time, encouraging them to think happy thoughts, and describing what it had felt like when his own corporeal Patronus burst from him. Longbottom demanded to see Potter’s Patronus again, which Potter obliged him by showing. The stag galloped twice around the room, making Severus’s chest tighten with remembrance of the time a year and a half ago when Potter had used it to fight the Dementors going after Black and Severus’s own doe had run with it.  
  
 _But he is as arrogant as ever_ , he thought a moment later. Someone like Draco would have refused Longbottom’s request, because of course attention being paid to him was less important than the advancement of the others in the class.  
  
“Thank you, Harry,” Longbottom said with a shy smile. “I think I can see how to do it now.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Potter said softly, and began to circulate among the others again, pausing to shout encouragement to Granger when she produced a wisp of silvery light from her wand.  
  
 _So arrogant, just like his father—_  
  
And then Severus remembered, again, the abuse he had discovered, and which he had seen more facts of within the last month and a half since the failed Occlumency lesson, and he cursed softly. Once again, his mind had begun its painful oscillation between the old position, which _did_ have its evidence and which he could not entirely abandon, and the new one he hated and which made him feel helpless because he had still not thought of a plan to aid Potter.  
  
 _Just because he is abused does not mean he is not arrogant_ , his mind sniped back at once.  
  
 _But the basis of that arrogance is destroyed now_ , Severus thought. He had decided that the boy’s spoiling at home had contributed to his expectation of special treatment at school. And now he had learned that the boy barely received adequate nutrition at home, but he still saw Potter show off for attention, and smirk in triumph when he achieved something, and insist on being first in Quidditch. Severus did not know what would happen when the Slytherin-Gryffindor game was played, in a fortnight, but he did not think it could be anything good.  
  
His emotions mixed and melted into one another, and became anger again as he watched the way that Potter bent down near Lovegood, listening to her inane rambling with a faint smile on his face. _So willing to help others, but he will not accept help for himself. So determined to see others survive the war, but he will not take the actions that would best ensure_ he _does.  
  
That is true arrogance, yes. To think that he can survive on his own, and that his safety is of no more importance than one cracked vial among a set of twelve. That is determination to die a martyr. That is Gryffindor “nobility” stretched to its greatest extremes.  
  
And whether he considers it in that light or not, that is what he is doing._  
  
At last, Severus stood and slipped out of the room in silence. He would try one more tactic before he took the step that he feared he would have to take. And if that tactic did not work…  
  
Then he would have to do as he had done before, without realizing it, and rely on the persuasion of the one person Harry would not be able to ignore.  
  
*  
  
Draco oriented on the Snitch. He flew towards it. He was aware of everything around him in that moment: the prevailing wind, the shouts from the stands, the Bludgers cracking together uselessly over his head, the relative positions of the Gryffindor players. He was focused, intent, alert. He could not be beaten.  
  
And then Harry dropped from above him in a combination of spirals and swooping that Draco had never seen before—it made him look more like a bird than a human—and scooped the Snitch out of the air with a simple motion of his hand.  
  
Draco pulled up, panting hard. He found that he wasn’t able to watch as the Gryffindor team surrounded Harry like a group of bees congregating around a flower. Even Weasley’s miserable performance as the Keeper hadn’t mattered. Nothing had, not when the Gryffindor Beaters were the Weasley twins and not when their Chasers were more competent than the Slytherin Chasers.  
  
And not when they had Harry to Draco’s pathetic attempt to catch the Snitch.  
  
He landed and strode towards the showers, ignoring the way that Vince and Greg called after him. They liked to chat to Draco after a game and hear where they had gone wrong. But since they hadn’t done anything wrong in this match, since it was all Draco’s fault that they had lost, he didn’t see any reason to stop and talk to them.  
  
In the showers, he stripped and flung his broom against the wall, then stepped directly under the water, running it loudly enough that he had a plausible excuse to ignore anyone who might try to speak to him. The others came in, muttering and gnashing their teeth. Draco ignored them, instead bracing his hands on the wall and tilting his head back so that the water could comb constantly changing fingers through his hair.  
  
 _Why can’t I defeat him, just once_?   
  
For the first time in years, Draco was feeling as if Harry was better than he was, again. He knew that he was as brave and as strong as Harry; he _knew_ that. But this was one area that he couldn’t pretend to be his equal.   
  
_If he had let me win—_  
  
And then Draco snarled and shook his head hard enough that drops of water leaped away from his head and shattered against the wall as if made of glass. _If he had let me win, then I would have yelled at him about that. I want a victory that I earned for myself, or it doesn’t mean anything._  
  
He felt a sour amusement then, because he sounded like a Gryffindor, principles of fair play and all that. But he strongly suspected that there was no other way to play Harry. He was so good that Slytherin cheating never had much effect. And it was no consolation to think that he would leave school in a few years and then Slytherin would have the chance of winning the House Cup again.  
  
 _I’ll be gone, too, and I won’t get to play a match opposite an inferior Seeker._  
  
At last, when the water was running cold and Draco could no longer pretend that he wasn’t hiding, he stepped out of the shower and reached for his clothes. He heard someone yelp, and he tensed, shaking his head and squinting rapidly to get the water out of his eyes so he could see.  
  
He was just in time to see a blurred glimpse of black hair and red robes before they whisked out of sight and Harry’s muffled voice said, “Sorry. I thought you were already dressed, because it seemed that the shower shut off a long—anyway. Sorry.”  
  
Draco smiled slowly and reached for his own robes, casting a Drying Charm on the way. He felt a deep satisfaction at Harry’s reaction, though he had no idea why. _At least there’s something I can do that he can’t, and that’s be comfortable naked._  
  
But it seemed connected at the same time to his feelings about Harry dating Chang, which he didn’t understand. Draco scowled again and drew his trousers on roughly, then called, “You can look now.”  
  
“Oh, good.” Harry edged back into sight, his cheeks furiously red. “Um. I came to see how upset you were about losing the game.”  
  
Draco’s good mood was gone in seconds. “I’m really upset,” he said. “Wouldn’t you be, if you lost it?”  
  
“Yeah.” Harry looked at him worriedly. “It just—I’m sorry, Draco. If there was a way that I could have let you win the game and win it for my House at the same time, then I would have done that. Sorry.”  
  
“Would you say that to Diggory?” Draco demanded, taking a step closer. The answer to his question suddenly seemed of overwhelming importance. “To _Chang_?”  
  
Harry blinked. “Of course not. They’re not my friends, and I don’t care so much if they lose a game.”  
  
“Then stop being patronizing,” Draco snarled, and turned away. He didn’t know what he wanted to say, except that his reply to Harry wasn’t _exactly_ right, but he didn’t care; he was the aggrieved party here, and Harry’s apology wasn’t up to his standards. Why should he be uneasy about anything concerning the situation? He ought to be angry instead.  
  
“I wasn’t trying to be patronizing.” Harry’s voice was angry now, too. “I was just saying that if—”  
  
“I heard you!” Draco spun around. “And it _is_ patronizing, and if you don’t stop patting me on the head and looking at me like I was a kicked kitten, I am going to _hurt_ you.” He picked up his wand to make the threat clearer.  
  
“Sometimes I don’t understand you at all!” Harry shouted, and retreated.  
  
Draco leaned his forehead against the wall and breathed deeply for a few minutes. The whole ridiculous spectacle they must have made paraded in front of his eyes for a moment, and he laughed bitterly.  
  
 _Harry, it’s not as simple as that. It’s more complex. It’s more complex than friendship._  
  
And there Draco ran into a wall in his own mind, because he and Harry _were_ friends, and he knew that what he felt for Harry was friendship (combined with some greed because he’d missed being Harry’s friend for two years and had a lot of lost ground to make up for), so how could it be more complex than that?  
  
*  
  
“Severus.”  
  
Severus said nothing, and kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on Dumbledore’s desk. He knew, now, that it had been a mistake to come here.  
  
There was no way he could tell the story as the boy’s memories had told it, with convincing evidence that suggested Potter did need help no matter how much he might protest otherwise. And he couldn’t tell it without fuming against the boy’s shortsightedness and the way he insisted on concealing the abuse. And he couldn’t tell it without the bitterness leaking through that no one had rescued him from his father’s emotional abuse. Like the abuse of Potter’s relatives, it had never escalated to beating, but it didn’t need to in order to have deleterious effects.  
  
And so he had told the story to Dumbledore, riddled with reservations and emotions of his own, and Dumbledore had reacted in a predictable way.  
  
“I believe you are misunderstanding the situation,” the Headmaster said gently, “the way that you so often do with Harry. I have no doubt that he would have come to me himself if it was this bad and complained. You must admit, Severus, you often exaggerate the trouble he gets into.”  
  
“But I exaggerate it _to his detriment_.” Severus looked up and into Dumbledore’s eyes, though it was difficult not to stand and simply depart in indignant silence. He tried to remind him that he was here for more people than just himself, but that actually made it harder to deal with. The thought made him snappish and increased the temptation to leave. “This time, if I am exaggerating, it would be in the direction of helping him, and, for _that_ reason, you choose to distrust me?”  
  
“It is less distrust,” said Dumbledore quietly, “than needing the full story. I cannot lightly sacrifice the Dursleys’ blood protection.”  
  
“If he dies of malnutrition,” Severus asked, “does that blood protection matter?”  
  
“There is another factor at play here,” said Dumbledore, who seemed serenely determined to ignore the content of Severus’s words and focus on the tone instead. “I would not place another burden on Harry. He already deals too much with the expectations from his classmates, the wizarding world, and now the Ministry, and he has no recourse to young Mr. Malfoy’s friendship as he did last year, and now he is training compulsively with Sirius. Talking about something he is not ready to talk about would stress him further.”  
  
Severus only stared for long moments. “You will not risk saving him because you might stress him,” he said at last, to be sure that he understood Dumbledore’s position.  
  
“I made a great many mistakes before, believing that I understood the situation of people around me better than they understood it themselves.” Dumbledore looked down at the desk, but not before Severus had seen agony in his blue eyes, agony he did not believe was feigned. “It is true, sometimes children do not know when they are in danger, but I saw, last year, that Harry had become an adult. I must wait until he comes to me and speaks of it himself. I owe him that much courtesy, that much trust.”  
  
Severus rose to his feet. “You have let your fear blind you to what must be done,” he said. “How _unlike_ a Gryffindor.”  
  
And he strode from the office before Dumbledore could come up with a retort. As he understood now, coming to Dumbledore had been a mistake.  
  
So he would have to tell the one person who stood the best chance of reaching Harry.  
  
*  
  
Harry concealed a yawn as he hurried towards the classroom where he and Draco had met before. He wished he could be in bed; nightmares had plagued him so much for the last few weeks that sleep was precious.  
  
On the other hand, meetings with Draco were even more so. Draco hadn’t asked to see him at all since the Gryffindor-Slytherin match, and the glares he gave Harry in class had felt uncomfortably as if they were for real. And Harry hadn’t felt comfortable asking _him_ just in case that endangered Draco somehow. So, when Harry got the terse note that said _Come at once_ , he felt compelled to obey.  
  
He stepped into the classroom and paused, looking around in confusion. No one was visible, not even under the shimmer of a Disillusionment Charm. Uneasily, he drew his wand, wondering if someone else had figured out that he and Draco met here and had forged Draco’s handwriting.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
No, that was Draco’s voice. Furious and hurt, but Draco’s voice. Harry turned towards him, wondering if he had somehow learned about the Army.  
  
“I can train my friends, but it would be dangerous for us to meet that often,” he said. “If you want to practice spells—”  
  
“I’m not talking about _that_ ,” Draco spat. He was in the shadows next to the door, which was the reason Harry hadn’t seen him immediately. Now he stepped forwards, his fists clenched, and glared at Harry. “I’m talking about why you didn’t tell me the truth about your relatives _trying to starve you to death_.”  
  
Harry gaped at him. And at once he thought of Snape. It was the only person Draco could have heard this from. And the next second, he was angry enough to have cut Snape down with a Slicing Curse if he’d stepped through the door. Didn’t he _know_ that Draco had enough to worry about without this? He was the one who taunted Harry about not appreciating the sacrifices that other people made for the war. Why wouldn’t he appreciate Draco’s sacrifices and leave him alone and not make him worry?  
  
“I didn’t want to upset you,” he said. “And anyway, you couldn’t do anything; I was in the Muggle world, and you were with your father. If you couldn’t even write me because it was too dangerous, how could you have come to my relatives’ house and tried to stop them?”  
  
Draco flung his arms about, not answering for a long moment. Harry nodded, satisfied that he had an argument that would win the debate for him.  
  
“That’s not the point!” Draco burst out at last. “Why didn’t you tell me when you were at school? We could think up some safe place for you to go. I could arrange a way to smuggle food to you, no matter how dangerous it was! Harry, you have to be able to—they don’t let you _eat_! That’s _abuse_!”  
  
“Lots of kids have worse things happen to them,” Harry said, bristling. _Why doesn’t he care that I tried to stop him from worrying_? “Your father might have cursed you, maybe killed you.”  
  
“Just because I’m in danger doesn’t mean you’re not in danger!” Draco actually stomped his foot, which Harry thought was a sign of how childish he was acting. “Harry, you have to let us help you.”  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes. “Us?”  
  
“Professor Snape and I—”  
  
“He broke into my mind, gave me a headache, and stole my memories without my permission,” Harry muttered. “And now he told you and made you risk this meeting that your father or your friends might find out about. There’s no way I’ll trust him. I wouldn’t trust him if he carried Voldemort’s head up to me by way of saying he was sorry.”  
  
“But he’s the only one who can help!” Draco was somehow shouting in a whisper, which Harry thought was impressive, but which wasn’t about to convince him. “He went to see Dumbledore, but he said that was useless. Dumbledore doesn’t want to move you.”  
  
Harry gave a little incredulous laugh. _Don’t they think that I would have figured out a solution already, if it was that simple_? “Of course not. He told me last term that I had to go back to the Dursleys’.”  
  
“But someone could help you,” Draco said lowly. “Professor McGonagall could take you.”  
  
Harry snorted. “She doesn’t breathe without Dumbledore telling her it’s all right.”  
  
“Then you could tell Dumbledore how it really is.”  
  
Harry lifted his head proudly. “How it really is is less bad than you imagine, Draco. They let me eat three times a week—”  
  
The door of the classroom slammed back on its hinges. Harry stared, then realized it must be Draco’s accidental magic acting up, the way his still did sometimes when he was angry.  
  
“You didn’t tell me,” Draco said, sounding as if it were a personal betrayal. “You were suffering like that and you didn’t _tell_ me.” He stepped closer to Harry, staring at him. “You suffered that all your life and I _never knew_. I thought we were supposed to be best friends.”  
  
“This summer was worse than any other time,” Harry began, and then stopped. It was his turn to get angry now. “I didn’t tell _anyone_ , not just you. Ron and Hermione knew I was a little hungry, but—”  
  
“ _Intectus_!”  
  
Harry yelped as his robes dropped to the floor, followed by his shirt and trousers. “Draco!” he shouted, and tried to cover up his groin, before he realized that he was in his pants and _that_ was all right.  
  
But Draco didn’t look as if it were all right. He stared at Harry’s chest and arms and legs as if he were about to make the door of the classroom bang around again. Harry folded his arms defensively. So what if he was a little skinny? So were a lot of people.  
  
A voice tried to whisper in the back of his head that it was different, that most people weren’t this skinny, and not for his reasons. But Harry ignored that. He wasn’t going to complain. He had survived. He would go on surviving, and if he was good enough at the training, then he would kill Voldemort at the end of this year. Then maybe he wouldn’t have to go back to the Dursleys because the blood protection wouldn’t matter anymore.  
  
He wasn’t going to _complain_. And he had worked so hard to keep Snape and Draco from finding out, and then they just _stole_ the knowledge from him. Harry narrowed his eyes, anger boiling up inside him.  
  
“You should have told me,” Draco said, and now he sounded furious again. He grabbed Harry’s shoulders before Harry was even aware that he was that close and shook him. “You should have _told_ me, you tosser!”  
  
Harry leaped back and gathered up his clothes. “I didn’t want to,” he said. “And that should have been reason enough.”  
  
“You don’t trust me.” Draco’s face was falling into the sneer he’d worn since the Slytherin-Gryffindor game.  
  
“If you have to call it trust,” Harry said, “there’s no one I trust that much. And I _hate_ it that you took this from me instead of just asking and then respecting that I didn’t want to talk about it.” He yanked his shirt violently over his head, not caring that it almost tore his glasses off his face.  
  
“It sounds like you hate _me_.” Draco’s wand hit the palm of his hand. “You’re really saying that, aren’t you?”  
  
And Harry’s tiredness with everything overwhelmed him. He’d tried to be good and patient and respect the sacrifices Draco was making, and look where it got him.  
  
“Fine, I do!” he yelled. “You were a sore loser, and now you’re sore that I won’t tell you something I didn’t tell _anyone_ , because it doesn’t _matter_ , and I don’t want to be around you anymore!”  
  
He tore out of the room, dragging his robes along behind him, heat boiling behind his scar and racing through his eyes.  
  
*  
  
Left alone in the classroom, it occurred to Draco that that might not have been the best way to go about confronting Harry.


	16. Truth

  
Harry had run from the classroom with his lungs burning. He ran until he was outside Gryffindor Tower again and panting so heavily that he almost couldn’t give the Fat Lady the password that would let him inside. She examined him with wide eyes, and fluttered about uncertainly for a moment.  
  
“Are you _quite_ all right, dear?” she demanded.  
  
“Honeybells,” Harry said.  
  
“Dear, are you sure you don’t want me to call Professor McGonagall?” the Fat Lady asked, even as the portrait swung open. “She has the most wonderful remedies for an upset stomach and upset mind—”  
  
“Don’t worry, I’ll just clear my mind,” Harry muttered as he ducked past into the common room, even though he knew she wouldn’t get the joke. A few of the older students in the common room were still awake and studying, and they frowned at him as he walked towards his bedroom. Harry couldn’t care less.  
  
He did come up the stairs and open the door into the room softly. He didn’t want to wake Ron up, or, for God’s sake, Seamus.  
  
But there were four soft, clear snores resounding throughout the room, and Harry crept into his bed and pulled the curtains shut without altering their sound. Then he dropped his head to the pillow and closed his eyes. They were burning, just like his lungs, just like his scar.  
  
 _And now I’ve really lost him. Months of pretending that we weren’t friends couldn’t cause me to lose him, but this did._  
  
Harry wanted to curl up around what felt like a wound in his belly and wallow in self-pity. He had to get some sleep, or he would be no good tomorrow, and he had training sessions with both Sirius and the Army to attend—and probably another dance around Dumbledore, who took it into his head every other week to inquire how Snape and Harry were getting on with Occlumency.  
  
So many things to do. Sometimes Harry thought he would welcome the final battle with Voldemort happening tomorrow, just to put an end to the endless procession of juggling worries and duties and trying to ensure that he kept up his part of the war.  
  
 _It’s hard work being a hero_ , he thought drowsily, rubbing at his forehead. The burning in his scar seemed worse than normal this time. _I wonder why Snape snipes all the time about my being one. He’s welcome to it if he wants it._  
  
He thought he might mention that to the greasy git if he saw him tomorrow, right after he screamed at him for telling Draco about the Dursleys.  
  
And then he was gone into sleep—only to wake two hours later from a nightmare about Draco being dismembered by his father, and lie awake staring out the window until dawn.  
  
*  
  
Draco ran directly for his bedroom. He was too upset to go to sleep, he knew that, so instead he decided to take a step that would fix the problem.  
  
And it was a problem.   
  
He’d _meant_ to act like a Gryffindor and thus force Harry to confront the abuse straightforwardly. It was simple, wasn’t it? Harry liked the truth. If he had someone else tell him the truth about the abuse from _their_ perspective—and Draco knew that Harry wasn’t really capable of thinking about it otherwise—then he would change his mind and believe them.  
  
But it had all gone horribly wrong, and Harry had misunderstood Draco’s anger, and he’d said that he _hated_ Draco, and—  
  
Draco couldn’t stand to have Harry angry at him like that. He could be angry with Harry, the way he’d been after he lost the match and Harry patronized him, but he couldn’t stand this.  
  
So he sat down to write a letter to the one person he thought would be able to advise him about Harry.  
  
 _Dear Mother,  
  
Something’s gone horribly wrong. I found out a secret that concerns a friend. I was less than diplomatic in telling my friend I knew about the secret, but I really don’t think they’ll make the right decision without help. Instead, though, they got angry at me and stormed off. What can I do? How can I help? I can’t just talk about it again, because I made such a mess the first time. I wanted to ask you because I value your diplomatic skills and your advice.  
  
Love,  
Draco._  
  
That was the draft he eventually produced, after fussing over the letter for an hour. Draco was proud of how discreet and delicate he sounded (though his mother would probably scold him for using the singular “they.”) And if his father read it over her shoulder, Draco could always pretend that he was concerned he knew someone struggling to become a Death Eater who might decide against the Dark Lord.  
  
He went to the Owlery and sent it flying with his own owl, Heliodorus; no need to hide this, when it was an official communication with his parents. Heliodorus eyed him sleepily as he accepted the letter and hooted softly when Draco stroked his feathers and then his beak.  
  
“This is urgent,” Draco said, staring into the owl’s eyes. “Narcissa Malfoy, you understand? Take it _directly_ to my mother, and don’t let my father see it if possible.”  
  
Heliodorus ruffled out his feathers and hooted in indignation; he was one of the few creatures in the world loyal to Draco alone, and obviously resented the implication that Lucius could take the letter from him in any way. Knowing his father’s power, though, Draco didn’t want Heliodorus to feel guilty if he failed.  
  
In moments, Heliodorus had sprung from his perch and was winging easily south towards Wiltshire. Draco watched him for as long as he could see him, and then went to bed, feeling content.  
  
The next few days wouldn’t be easy, what with enduring Harry’s anger and his own frustration, but he would get through them in the end.  
  
*  
  
Severus needed only a glance at Draco the next morning to know that his plan to inform Draco of Potter’s abuse had not succeeded.  
  
Draco sat at his place with his shoulders hunched, digging into his food like it was the remains of a slaughtered enemy. If someone else addressed him, he grunted and hunched further. Severus wondered for a moment what he thought he was doing, then concealed a sigh behind his mug of tea. It was unlikely that anyone would connect Draco’s disgruntlement to Potter, not when he and Harry had been so successful at building up the pretense of a renewed rivalry this year. He could always pretend to have awakened in a foul mood.  
  
And Potter sat at the Gryffindor table, tense and alert, with a feverish expression on his face. He answered when his little friends asked him questions, but with an obviously abstracted air. And he kept his eyes pointedly away from the Slytherin table, though on most mornings he managed a glare to aid Draco’s acting.  
  
 _Whatever happened between them, it did not work out as I hoped_. Severus set his mug down and directed his own attention to his food, that an attentive observer could not work out he cared about this pair of misbegotten students who did not understand their own interests. _I must contrive to help Potter, but all my best ideas have foundered on Dumbledore’s fear, Draco’s inadequacy, or Potter’s stubbornness. And yet, the necessity remains the same._  
  
“What’s causing you to frown so this morning, Severus?’   
  
Even paying attention to his own food would not deter Minerva—she was too used to sullen students whom she had to chide into answering in class—so Severus made shift to reply. “What always causes me to frown?” he drawled, and paused to bite his way through a bit of toast. “The incompetence of students in my Potions classes.” He hesitated, and then decided that he might as well try asking Minerva’s advice, under a suitable disguise, of course. God knew that nothing else had worked, and he could ask in such a way so as not to make her suspicious and worsen the situation. “One student in particular is causing trouble because of external circumstances, and not his lack of fitness for the subject. But though I have attempted to reason him through his difficulty, he will not listen to me.”  
  
“What kind of external circumstances?” Minerva had set her mug down with a very definite clink, but Severus was unafraid. Minerva was ferocious in defending her students; Severus could be just as ferocious at defending his own privacy.  
  
“His family.”  
  
Minerva nodded. “And you have tried reason? What else have you tried?”  
  
Despite the situation, Severus felt smug that he was in the position to give her an offended look. “I hardly think threats of removing points and giving detentions would be appropriate in this situation.”  
  
“No, Severus, that’s not what I meant.” Minerva sounded exasperated with him, but before Severus could bristle, she leaned forwards and caught his eye. “No matter how much of an alien notion it may be to you, some students need more than reason. They need to know that a teacher is emotionally involved in their situation and seeing them as people, not simply as obstacles to others’ learning. Have you made it clear that you _care_ , Severus, and why?”  
  
Severus stared at her for only a moment. Then he snorted and turned back to his toast. “A teacher should not care about one student more than the others,” he said. “And the kind of ‘caring’ that you appear to believe necessary would confirm exactly that, in the student’s small and prejudiced mind.”  
  
Inwardly, he was shaken.  
  
The moment Minerva spoke her words, they added to and changed the complex pattern of concerns, thoughts, memories, and plans he had conceived regarding Harry. He knew what he could do. It might not bond the boy to him immediately, but it would show him that Severus himself had a vulnerability, and that was a start, after Severus had so unexpectedly discovered _his_ vulnerability.  
  
He could tell the boy about Lily, and Severus’s friendship with her.  
  
“There need be no talk of the teacher favoring one student over the others,” Minerva said, her voice going stiff and more of her Scottish accent coming through. “Any more than I favor a student with extra Transfiguration tutoring. Some need more help, that is all. But even if you don’t really care about this student, Severus, I advise you to _act_ as if you do. That’s what those of us not blessed with real emotions have to do.”  
  
Her words were perhaps meant to be inaudible, but Severus heard them well enough. He sat still for long moments, until the temptation to explode at her had passed.  
  
And meanwhile, he thought again and again, doubtfully, wonderingly, about whether he could allow himself to pursue the course her words had suggested.   
  
_I cannot. Betray myself in that fashion? It would win me no reward and do little good, as much as Potter hates me now. He would delight in having that weapon to hold over my head, and no doubt he would quiz Black about it first, and Black would tell him a pack of lies that would drive him further away than ever. I would have exposed my past to no purpose.  
  
You are lying by omission_ , said the sharp self-critical voice he had developed when spying for Dumbledore, so that he might view his actions the way an outsider would view them and protect himself better. _Every time you make the boy believe that only an antagonistic relationship subsisted between you and his parents. Every time he believes that you had nothing to do with Lily and Potter’s destruction. Every time.  
  
He is not yet ready for such knowledge_ , Severus replied to himself, and then stood up and swept out of the Great Hall with dignity. He was aware of the boy’s eyes following him, and that they burned with hatred and not the confidence he would have liked to have seen in them.  
  
 _Nothing I do can repair this.  
  
If only for Lily and yourself, and not for him, you must repair the situation. You must,_ said the relentless voice. _And now you have a way and would ignore it if you could. I did not believe I would see the day arise when you could easily be called coward._  
  
Severus strode to the dungeons, and wished he could believe he was going to a Potions class and not running away from himself.  
  
*  
  
The last thing Harry had expected when he stepped into his bedroom that afternoon was for Hermione to be there with Ron. Well, maybe that was the second-to-last thing he expected, because the _last_ was her using a spell of some kind to seal the door behind him and then for her to stand staring at him with her hands on her hips.  
  
“I know something is wrong,” Hermione said. “And you’re not going anywhere until you talk to us and tell us what it is.”  
  
Harry hunched his shoulders. He was still tired. It had been three days since Draco betrayed him, and he hadn’t got much sleep since then. And now his best friends were trying to corner him, when he’d relied on them understanding that he didn’t want to talk. Anger boiled up in him, and he tried several times to swallow it, but it didn’t want to be swallowed.  
  
“Fine,” he said. “ _Fine_. You want to know what’s wrong? Snape tore me into my memories when he was _teaching_ me Occlumency, and then he told Draco what he saw, and Draco betrayed me and tried to _force_ me to tell him. And now you’re doing the same thing. I told Draco I hated him and ran away from him. Do you want me to do the same thing to you?”  
  
He was yelling by the time he came to the end of that. He didn’t care. It felt good to talk, for once, without worrying if anyone was going to overhear him. He fixed his eyes on Ron and Hermione and waited, panting, for them to explode back.  
  
But even though Hermione’s face got red and Ron looked as if he’d like to hit Harry for yelling at Hermione, they didn’t yell. Instead, Hermione said softly, “I thought it was something like that. It’s been hard, isn’t it? You have to pretend not to be Malfoy’s friend, but you’d like to associate with him openly. I can only imagine what it would be like if Ron and I had to pretend to ignore you.”  
  
“Don’t compare us to that slimy—” Ron started indignantly, but Hermione hit him in the ribs with her elbow and he shut up.  
  
Harry laughed bitterly. _Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can talk around it and they’ll sympathize with me and it’ll be all right_. “You have no idea.”  
  
“Then tell us.” Hermione fixed him with an earnest gaze. “I remember the night you came back from your detention with a massive headache. That was the night Professor Snape tore into your memories, wasn’t it?”  
  
Harry swallowed. Thinking about that night made him want to find Snape and rip him apart, but he’d avoided that so far, and he thought he should go on avoiding it. “Yeah.”  
  
“What kind of memories were they, mate?” Ron spoke seriously, his eyes darting from Harry to the door and back, as if he was afraid Seamus would come in despite the locking spell and overhear them talking. “Could you tell Dumbledore he took them?”  
  
 _They’re asking_. But Harry laughed again. “That’s the last thing I want to do,” he said, and tried to distract them. “Dumbledore still thinks we’re having the Occlumency lessons. He still thinks we’re getting along. And he’s been ignoring me all year, anyway. I think he’s afraid that Voldemort will possess me and read his mind through my eyes or something.”  
  
“What were the memories, Harry?” Hermione’s voice was old and sad.  
  
Harry folded his arms. He felt as if maybe they would go away if he could just stick his elbows into his sides hard enough. He was dreaming some nightmare, and if he could cause himself enough pain, then he would wake up.   
  
_It hasn’t worked so far, or I would have woken up after my fight with Draco. But it might this time._  
  
“I don’t want to tell you,” he whispered.  
  
“Why not?” Ron had come a step closer now and was staring at him in concern. “If Snape did something to you—”  
  
“No.” Harry closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. But it didn’t want to be controlled. It was speeding up, and his heart was speeding up, and his head felt as if it would float away like a balloon any minute. He was full of light and air and panic. “It’s nothing like this. It was memories of the summer. It was—I didn’t want to worry you. I never wanted to worry you.” He thought that wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but the lightness and the whirling emotions descended on him, and his body jerked and shuddered in response.  
  
“Harry.” Hermione crept towards him, her eyes enormous. Her arms quivered and then pulled back. Harry thought she wanted to hug him but didn’t dare. “It makes it worse if we don’t _know_. What if you die and we could have helped you if only we’d known? Please, please tell us.” She was starting to cry now, and Ron put a hand on her shoulder and reached towards Harry with his free hand.  
  
“Please, mate,” he said, and tried to smile. “Think of all the awful things we’re imagining. It’s probably not as bad as all that, is it?”  
  
Harry rubbed his hands along his arms, shivering. He remembered feeling like this when he’d been a baby and had a fever and the Dursleys wouldn’t take him to hospital, but never since. “It’s worse,” he whispered.  
  
“Then _tell us_.” Now Hermione was crying and stomping her foot at the same time. Harry tried to laugh, but it came out like a squeaky whinny and he stopped.  
  
He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He’d thought that if he just kept it at a distance, then the memories wouldn’t overwhelm him. It would just be something that happened in the summer and couldn’t happen again. The Dursleys wouldn’t be quite that awful again, as long as he told as his friends, including Sirius, to be sure and not send owls over the summer.  
  
But they knew now, or Draco and Snape knew and Ron and Hermione were on the verge of figuring it out, and Harry didn’t think he could hide it any longer. He was too tired.  
  
“They starved me,” he said. “All summer. I got about three meals a week.”  
  
“Oh, _Harry_!”  
  
Hermione seemed to Apparate the distance between him and Ron; anyway, she was hugging him in the next moment and Harry couldn’t remember seeing her move. He wrapped his arms around her, too, and buried his face in her neck. Ron came charging up to him, then hesitated and gingerly hugged him and Hermione both.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he whispered. Harry thought Hermione might have said it, but she was too busy crying. “My God, mate, why didn’t you _tell_ anyone?”  
  
“I told you _that_ part of it,” Harry said. Wasn’t it supposed to feel better, once you told the truth? Instead, he felt worse than before, like his bones were made of rusty iron and every one of them was breaking, and there were pieces of glass caught in his throat. “Because I didn’t want you to worry. And anyway, as long as everyone didn’t know about it, they couldn’t care anyway. It would be like it never happened. You couldn’t go and change the past, or take revenge on the Dursleys. I thought it would go away.”  
  
“It’ll never go away,” Hermione said, wiping her tears off with an impatient hand. Harry thought she was embarrassed that she’d cried at all, since it was such a girly thing to do. “Not unless you talk about it, and struggle to get over it, and learn to eat properly again—oh, Harry, it’s going to take so much _work_.”  
  
Harry struggled irritably at that, but he was pinned to the wall with her holding onto him, and Ron was still holding him, too, and he frowned stubbornly at Harry when he realized what was happening and let his weight sag forwards. Harry gave up with a sigh. “See,” he said, wishing he could clean his glasses, “that’s another reason I didn’t tell you. Do you think I have the kind of _time_ to do that work, when there’s Voldemort to fight? I have to do that first, before anything else, but you and Snape and Draco all seem to think that I should think about the Dursleys first. You’re not making any sense.”  
  
“You can think about them both.” Hermione was the one clinging like a Dementor now, because Ron had stepped back from her and come in so he could hug Harry from the side. “But you can’t go back to them. And you’re for more than just fighting Voldemort.” She gasped suddenly, the kind of gasp Harry was used to hearing when she got a sudden insight into her Arithmancy homework. “Harry, you’ve been thinking that that’s the only thing you’re good for, haven’t you? I read once that abused children often think of themselves like that, because they believe that they could have prevented the abuse if they were just a little faster or a little stronger or a little smarter.”  
  
Harry stiffened. He really _couldn’t_ talk to them any further, because Dumbledore had made him promise not to say anything about the prophecy.  
  
But maybe he didn’t have to, he realized. Hermione was staring at him with wide-open, appalled eyes—and pity, which Harry hated—but there was no indication that she thought his training cycle due to a prophecy. If he let her think that he was just upset and determined to fight Voldemort because he’d been abused, then that was fine.  
  
“Yeah,” he said, with a shaky smile. “That’s some of it.”  
  
Hermione hugged him again, hard enough that Harry grunted a little. He was skinnier than he’d been, but he didn’t know if she understood that. “You’re more than a weapon.” She said it with an absolute conviction that, Harry thought cynically, would be nice to have. “We’ll work on this, Harry. I’ll look up things in the books so that you don’t have to talk to Madam Pomfrey if you don’t want to. And there are potions and spells that can bind Snape and Malfoy to secrecy.”  
  
Ron nodded. “Yeah, Harry. We don’t have to go to them. We can do it on our own.” He looked happier than Harry had seen him all year, probably because they hadn’t had an adventure to follow or a mystery to solve until this point.  
  
Harry relaxed. At least his best friends knew he didn’t trust adults and wouldn’t try to involve him with them. Books and Hermione were easier to deal with than Madam Pomfrey’s leading questions or Snape’s stupid assertions.  
  
 _Or Draco’s betrayal_ , he thought, but shook his head. He wasn’t going to think about that.  
  
“All right,” he said, when he saw that Hermione was looking at him with quivering, eager anticipation, the way that Dudley’s pet rabbit used to when Harry was the only one who fed it. “Let’s get started.”  
  
*  
  
Heliodorus brought his mother’s letter to Draco at dinner. Draco snatched at it greedily, wondering what had taken her so long to answer. They only had a week more of the term, and then they would go home for Christmas holidays. Draco couldn’t use Narcissa’s advice if she waited too long to give it.  
  
And then, of course, Pansy insisted on clinging to his arm, and Blaise came and sat by him with the mysterious smile that meant he wanted Draco to ask him questions about their Arithmancy homework, and Vince and Greg asked Draco to explain chess to them _again_ (they hadn’t yet given up hope that they might understand it someday, since they thought understanding chess was the first step to being sophisticated). Draco dealt with all of them in the way he thought his father would deal with _their_ fathers, or mother, in Blaise’s case. So many distractions, so much chatter and inconsequential worries, when he had important business to think about.  
  
Finally, by yawning a lot and looking longingly in the direction of the bedroom, he convinced them that he was tired and managed to disappear into his own bed with the curtains shut around him. Then he propped himself up against his pillows and began to read the letter with the utmost attention.  
  
 _My dear son:  
  
It is clear what you mean and what you have been struggling against, though at last you have learned to write in such a manner as to be discreet and so as not to convey your intention aloud. I am impressed.  
  
If you have truly given advice to your friend—your close and dear friend—that did not work, you must try again. But this time, do not approach it as if you were giving advice. Your uncle Rodolphus Lestrange did that with Lucius and managed to permanently offend him. Instead, approach in a spirit of humility. The humility may be mock if it must, but conciliating your friend and making him listen is the most important thing._  
  
“But what will happen if he won’t even listen to me, humility or not?” Draco muttered, and hurried to the next part of the letter.  
  
 _Speak calmly and thoughtfully. Remember that this is done more for your friend’s sake than your own. Above all, you must avoid giving offense. Your hurt feelings are not the most important thing here. Hold your tongue when he objects, when he shouts and screams and rants. Apologize first. Then tell him in clear terms what worried you, and why you wanted to give the advice in the first place. Many people will listen to any explanation as long as you proffer a bit of agreement first and make it seem as if you agree that your mistake was indeed a mistake._  
  
“But that’s—” Draco began, and then stopped and bit his lip. It was partially because Blaise had come into the bedroom and was fussing around with his pyjamas, but Draco was also thinking about his mother’s words in that paragraph. _Your hurt feelings are not the most important thing here.  
  
Does it matter if it’s hard? It matters that you get Harry listening to you again, that you win his friendship again._  
  
Whatever he did, Draco knew he couldn’t let things go on like this. Just being without Harry made him feel sick and shaky. He _had_ to have their friendship again, and even if apologizing was hard, it would be easier than this.  
  
His mother had only one more paragraph in her letter.  
  
 _Retain control of your rational mind, if your friend cannot. Remember what you want, and keep your eyes focused on it, and do whatever you must to regain it. Do not lose control of your temper or your tongue. Retreat at once if you think it is happening, and come back when you can control yourself._  
  
Draco took a deep breath. Professor Snape had given him lessons in self-control so he could fool his father. Draco didn’t want to _fool_ Harry, exactly, but he knew that he had to make him listen, and maybe those lessons could help with this, too.  
  
And besides, if he didn’t follow his mother’s advice he knew he would feel like a fool and a child.  
  
“Thank you,” he whispered to Narcissa, and then folded the letter up and put it under his pillow. It didn’t help with everything—for example, it didn’t tell him anything about his confused feelings for Harry—but right now, he wanted Harry’s friendship back more than he wanted to know what those feelings were. He would work on that, and leave the rest for later.  
  
*  
  
 _You’re being stupid._  
  
Harry gnawed his lip and paced back and forth. The cold wind blowing along the top of the Astronomy Tower plastered his robes to him and made him shiver. Absently, he cast a Warming Charm, thinking that he’d always been cold since he came back to school.  
  
 _That would be because you lost weight and you’re thinner now._  
  
Harry scowled and spun on his heel, tempted to stomp down the stairs and leave. It seemed that he’d gone from being able to ignore his abuse by the Dursleys to always thinking about it, which made _no_ sense even when he and Hermione spent part of each day in the library reading up on abuse and recovering from it.  
  
 _Stupid git Snape. If he hadn’t learned about it, then Ron and Hermione and Draco wouldn’t have learned about it, and everything could have gone on happening the way it was meant to._  
  
But he wasn’t unhappy _all_ the time when he was talking about abuse with Hermione. In fact, she was almost soothing to talk to. She tended to put everything into generalities and abstractions and theories, and Harry was interested in putting what had happened as far from him as possible whilst he still dealt with it.  
  
Ron was soothing, too, because he didn’t _talk_. He and Harry went flying, or he tried—patiently, and futilely—to teach Harry chess, or they argued about whether most of the spells taught to them in class would _really_ be useful in later life. Harry could be normal with him, and except for some concerned glances now and then, Ron treated the whole abuse conversation as if it hadn’t happened. Harry liked being around Ron best right now.  
  
Hermione had pressed him to tell Sirius about the abuse, but Harry had pointed out that he thought Sirius would go off and kill the Dursleys, and that wouldn’t be helpful. Hermione had reluctantly agreed to wait.  
  
She hadn’t been able to persuade him to go to Dumbledore, either, but she seemed to understand why. And even she hadn’t suggested approaching Draco or Snape.  
  
Which meant that it made zero sense why Harry had answered Draco’s letter, which asked Harry to meet with him so he could explain, although Harry had insisted that he choose the place and he’d chosen the top of the Astronomy Tower.  
  
But he had, and now he was pacing up here, near midnight, just the time they’d been meeting in the classroom when they still met as friends, and he had to wonder if he was out of his head for agreeing instead of Draco’s being out of his head for writing to him.  
  
“I wondered if you would come.”  
  
Harry stiffened. From the sound of his voice, Draco stood between him and the stairs. Harry had become good at judging the directions of sounds in his lessons.  
  
But he had agreed to this, for whatever stupid reason, and he was committed. Harry had promised himself he was going to be cold and calm and hold onto his temper for as long as he could. It probably wouldn’t be long, he thought as he turned around, because it wouldn’t be long until Draco said something moronic.  
  
”I came,” he said evenly. “Because I couldn’t believe you would write to me after what you said last time, and I thought you must have something particular to say. So talk.”  
  
Draco stood there looking at him instead of answering for long moments. He had his hands clenched at his sides, as if he was fighting down the temptation to lash out at Harry. Harry understood that temptation all too well. He almost wished Draco would give in to it, because then at least the meeting would be short.  
  
Draco closed his eyes at last. Harry braced himself.  
  
“I wanted to apologize,” Draco said, unbelievably.  
  
Harry stared at him, gaping until he realized how stupid he would look. “Why?” he asked. “I thought you thought you didn’t do anything wrong.” His words made Draco flinch, but that was _good_. Harry wanted to hurt Draco as badly as he’d been hurt. Maybe Draco would really understand, then, what he’d done, and leave Harry alone.  
  
“I did,” Draco said, almost inaudibly. Harry knew he would have failed to hear it if not for his practiced listening. “But then I started thinking about it. I didn’t let you know, gently, that I knew. I just wanted to _kill_ them. The people who hurt you. I was so _angry_. And then I went in there, and I acted like you were the one I was angry at, even though you weren’t.” He opened his eyes and leaned forwards anxiously. “Please, Harry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shaken you like that, or cast the spell that stripped you. It was wrong.”  
  
Harry folded his arms. He was trembling, and he knew it. He forced himself to be still. “I’m glad you realize that,” he said. “But you could have apologized for being angry in the first place.”  
  
A line appeared between Draco’s brows, and he shifted his weight from one foot to another the way he did when McGonagall caught him out with a question in Transfiguration and he hadn’t done the homework. “I did apologize for being angry at you.”  
  
“No,” Harry said. “For being angry with the Dursleys. What business is it of yours what they did to me?”  
  
“Because you’re my friend,” Draco said. There was a trembling behind his words, Harry thought, as if he was speaking them whilst edging out on a rope over an abyss. “Because I don’t want people to hurt you. I learned about it the wrong way. I told you about it the wrong way. But I won’t apologize for being angry when I heard.” He looked directly at Harry. “I’m always going to want to hurt people who hurt you.”  
  
Harry looked quickly away, because otherwise he was sure he would say something stupid, or show something stupid on his face. That sensation he’d had years ago, when Draco told him that he’d got wounded by Buckbeak because he was trying to get Harry’s attention, came back to him. No one had ever said something like that to him before, just like no one had ever competed for Harry’s friendship before he came to Hogwarts. He knew Ron and Hermione would protect him as hard as they could, but Ron had never _said_ anything like this, and Hermione would probably encourage him to follow the rules, rather than just hurt people who had hurt him.  
  
“Snape had no right to tell you,” he muttered.  
  
“I can agree with that.” Draco’s voice was gentle, and from the shuffling sound of his feet, Harry thought he’d come closer. “But he did. And I can’t change that, anymore than I can change what happened to you.” He took a deep breath. “So, please, Harry. Can we talk about forgiveness? Can we talk about why you didn’t tell me about this before? Why you didn’t tell _anyone_? Because that’s something I want to understand.”  
  
Harry hesitated, paralyzed by the war inside him.  
  
*  
  
 _I think he’s yielding._  
  
Draco watched Harry closely, and scolded himself when he had that thought, because he was probably seeing what he wanted to see. But no, Harry’s jaw wasn’t as set as it had been before, and his mouth trembled now and then. Those were signals Snape had trained Draco to see, and which he’d started watching for on Lucius’s face.  
  
Draco would be glad if Harry was yielding, because doing this alone, following his mother’s advice, had been terrifying.  
  
He had trained all summer to keep himself from _being_ honest, to keep from showing his father what he truly felt for him. And he liked that. He liked the security of acting, of being a spy. Yes, it was dangerous if anyone ever found out, but whilst he was behind the mask, he had _power_. No one ever knew exactly what he was thinking. Anyone who looked at him started with a disadvantage. Draco thought he would have done the same thing once he returned to school even if there had been someone in Slytherin he could have trusted. He was independent and acting like it.  
  
So exhilarating.  
  
So hard to drop that acting and speak honestly to Harry and control his defensive reactions to Harry’s words.  
  
But when Harry had argued that he shouldn’t be angry with the Dursleys, Draco had learned the advantage of honesty. He could say that yes, he had a _right_ to be angry, and as long as he explained it well enough, concentrating on the words instead of the satisfaction he would have if he could explode at Harry, then Harry would have to listen to him.  
  
So there were some good parts to it. And now he had the right to demand that Harry be honest with him, too, because Draco had been honest with _him_.  
  
Harry swallowed several times, and then started talking with his head turned away. Draco reckoned he had to be satisfied with that, for now, though he really wished he could see Harry’s face as he talked. He always wished that.  
  
“I didn’t tell anyone because I thought it wouldn’t do any good. It would make you worry. It would give you another burden to carry when you’re already spying on your father and lying to your friends and trying not to become a Death Eater.” Harry took a shaky breath, although Draco doubted anyone else would have heard how shaky it was unless they’d been attending to Harry as closely as he had. “I heard the conversation you and Snape had last year, when you thought I was asleep in the hospital bed. I know that you’re making sacrifices for the war. I was trying not to make it harder for you, to make you make more sacrifices.”  
  
Draco caught his breath. “Harry,” he said, speaking without thinking, knowing instinctively that the words he was about to speak would be right, “that doesn’t mean you don’t _get_ support. Snape and I had each other’s support. Who did you think would help you, if we couldn’t?”  
  
“Ron,” Harry said, his voice muffled. “Hermione. Sirius. But even then—Draco, I _know_ I have to carry this alone. I know that I’m the most important person in the war. I know it because of something Dumbledore told me.”  
  
“Well, tell me,” Draco said.  
  
“He told me not to tell you.”  
  
“Harry,” Draco said, “this is the original secret that’s poisoning you and twisting you up inside and making you think you’re different from anyone else. But you’re not. You’re the most important person in the war, you said. But lots of us think you’re pretty damn important for other reasons. And that’s why we wish we’d known about the starvation. I want to help you carry this secret, too. I promise you can trust me. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. It’s not even a sacrifice to me. It’s not something I’m giving up against my will. If there was a chance that my father or the Dark Lord would read my mind or torture me and get the secret from me, I’d run away and let them disown me or kill me before I’d betray you.”  
  
He relaxed slightly, panting, after those words left him. He knew they weren’t exactly the kinds of words a friend would speak, they were more, but, on the other hand, for once the confusing feelings that raged through his chest had given him strength and clarity. The strength and clarity were there in the words.  
  
Harry tensed, coiling until Draco yearned to reach out and rub his shoulders. But he knew that the next decision had to be Harry’s. Harry waited, and waited, and waited, and still Draco controlled himself, and thought of the lessons that Snape had given him, and his mother’s letter crinkled up in his pocket from being read so many times, and waited, too. At least it gave him something in common with Harry.  
  
*  
  
 _I have to choose. And it’s so hard to choose. It’s so hard to know that he won’t betray me again, or I won’t betray him. What would happen if I told him about the prophecy and then Voldemort read it out of his mind and he didn’t even_ know? _The books said that Legilimency can happen and you don’t know it, sometimes._  
  
But against all those good arguments was a helpless, irresistible push of emotion. Loneliness; Harry was so _tired_ of being alone. Resentment; why should he be the one left alone to carry the burden of the prophecy, when Dumbledore wouldn’t talk to him and help him bear it?   
  
And, above all, the relentless need to trust Draco. It was the same reason he’d never believed seriously that Draco betrayed him by giving him the Portkey that took him to Voldemort last year; it would have hurt too much to believe that, so his mind simply jumped over the “logic” and rejoiced when Lucius explained what had really happened.  
  
He had to trust now, for the same reason. Harry didn’t know why Draco had become so important to him, or when it had happened, but he thought maybe it was because this friendship had been such a trial and a struggle, not like the easy, comfortable friendship he’d fallen into right away with Ron and Hermione.  
  
“All right,” he said, opening his eyes. “This is it.”  
  
Draco at once came closer, and Harry smiled when he saw his face. There was a sharp wanting in Draco’s eyes, as if Harry’s words were the secret to making the Philosopher’s Stone. It was nice to be _wanted_ like that, Harry thought. Ron and Hermione had each other, but Draco acted as if he only had Harry, even though that wasn’t true.  
  
 _It’s selfish to feel that way._  
  
But it was the way he felt, anyway.  
  
“Dumbledore told me,” Harry said, after he cast several anti-eavesdropping charms that Sirius had taught him, “that I’m the object of a prophecy. Only a child born in July to parents who fought Voldemort three times can defeat him. And he believed it was me, so he went after me and marked me.” He pushed his fringe back so that Draco could see his scar, and Draco stared at it exactly as if he had never seen it before. “And now I’m the one who has to fight and defeat him. Me, and no one else.” He took a deep, shivery breath, and waited a moment. But he didn’t feel as if the words were catching in his throat like shards of glass, the way he’d felt when he talked to Ron and Hermione about the abuse. He relaxed a little. “So I want to fight him this year, and that’s why I’ve been training this hard.” He hesitated, then added, “And—and I thought that if I didn’t tell you about this, or about the starvation, then you would be happier, because I’m almost sure to die when I fight him, and if you didn’t know as much about me, it would hurt you less when I died.”  
  
 _Well_ , he thought a stunned moment later, when he heard the echoes of the words dying in the air. _I didn’t know I thought that._  
  
His next word was “ _Oof_ ,” because Draco had thrown his arms around him and was holding him so tight Harry almost suffocated. He stepped back a little and looked into Draco’s face, wondering if he would be angry again.  
  
But Draco was holding Harry with a look of ecstasy and peace on his face. Harry smiled and hugged him back, letting his head rest on Draco’s shoulder for _just_ a minute. No one was up here to see them, so he didn’t have to care about how girlish it was.  
  
 _Of course he likes knowing a secret that no one else knows._  
  
“I’ll never betray you,” Draco said at last, his words soft as starlight. “I would always miss you. I would always be hurt if you died. And so, we’ll make sure _it won’t happen_. I’ll train you in Occlumency and Legilimency, if Snape won’t. We’ll make sure you’re safe, and I’m safe, no matter what happens.”  
  
“Dumbledore won’t like us meeting that often,” Harry said, because it was the only thing he could think of to say.  
  
“Fuck Dumbledore,” said Draco cheerfully. “He was the one who told you to keep this secret to yourself, too. But we’re disobeying him in that. There are other spells we can use to keep the meetings secret and others I don’t know but know would be useful. I’ll ask Snape to teach them to me.”  
  
“It might be dangerous,” Harry whispered. “It might be dangerous in ways we’re not even thinking about.” He was happy at the moment, but the mere thought of losing that happiness made him feel like he wanted to vomit.  
  
“I know that,” Draco said. “But we’ll think as hard as we can, and—” He tightened his hold on Harry again and ducked his head, as if there were no way he could look into Harry’s face when he spoke the next words. “I think it would be more dangerous if we went on not meeting and possibly lost this.”  
  
Harry squeezed him almost hard enough to lift him off his feet, then.  
  
He understood next to nothing of what he was feeling, except for one thing: with Draco by his side, he was happy.


	17. Stories

  
“Mr. Potter? Would you come to my office for a moment?”  
  
 _Of course she’d choose a moment when no one else was around_ , Harry thought, and hoped that Umbridge had not noticed the subtle stiffening of his spine. Despite the amount of time he’d spent listening to her lecture about loyalty to the Ministry, he still had no real idea how observant she was. He’d had to give his attention to other things this year.  
  
 _Look at it this way. She was clever enough to take you by surprise, and that’s quite enough._  
  
“Yes, of course, Madam,” he said, turning around and following her up the stairs. Umbridge paused to give him a sickly sweet smile.  
  
“Oh, please, call me Professor.” She touched the pink bow in her hair and giggled. “I never feel that I’m old enough to be called Madam yet!”  
  
Harry managed to smile back, but his heart was beating nervously and he was trying to total all his possible allies in his head and not finding many. _Draco’s at home for the Christmas holidays, so are Ron and Hermione. Professor McGonagall went down to Hogsmeade at least an hour ago. God knows where Dumbledore is._  
  
Yes, Umbridge had chosen her time well.  
  
Resigned to enduring at least one private lecture on the necessity for Our Hero to stand up and support the Ministry, Harry followed Umbridge to her office. The walls were covered with enchanted plates of moving kittens, most of them meowing or grooming themselves or asleep; Harry hoped Umbridge would take his sideways glance at them to be one of fascination and not one of fascinated revulsion. Umbridge sat down behind her desk, gestured Harry to a chair, and beamed at him. “I’m going to talk to you about something very important, Harry,” she said, and lowered her voice mysteriously. “ _Very_ important. Do you know what that might be?”  
  
“Er,” Harry said, and tried to look interested and blank at the same time. “Not really, Ma—I mean, Professor.”  
  
“Well, well, you haven’t had to deal with personal appeals of this sort, much.” Umbridge smiled at him, and Harry thought she was trying to look kind, but it only made her appear constipated. “But now, the Minister is planning an important strike back at You-Know-Who, and he needs the support of everyone involved.”  
  
“The Minister _is_?” Harry asked, astonished. Dumbledore hadn’t mentioned anything about this, which could only mean Dumbledore didn’t know, which wasn’t very much like Dumbledore—  
  
 _Or he doesn’t want you to know. He’s trying to preserve your childhood again, the great bearded git._  
  
Harry felt a flash of discomfort that turned into disgust, and he decided that, if Umbridge was offering to tell him, then _he_ saw no need to turn away from the information. He would get it one way or the other, and just let Dumbledore try to stop him. He leaned forwards. “What is he going to do, Professor?”  
  
Umbridge patted her bow again and turned her neck to the side as if she wanted Harry to admire her. _Mental_ , Harry thought, but it was getting information out of her, so he didn’t mind so much. “Well, most of it is secret, of course, but a large part of it involves casting a spell that identifies the Dark Marks,” she said. “I don’t mind telling you about that, young man, because you must already know about Dark Marks and you _are_ intimately involved in the war.”  
  
 _A spell that—I wonder if Snape will be affected_? But then Harry realized that he had no means of knowing, and he didn’t really care anyway. Let Snape be affected. Harry was willing to take it as payback for what Snape had done to him, even if he had no means of being connected with it directly and no means to make Snape _know_ Harry thought of it like that. If the universe wanted to take revenge for him, it could.  
  
“That’s good to know,” he said, and tried to make his voice sound calm and adult, as if he heard things like this every day, rather than Professor Umbridge having given him something he’d been waiting for. “But I don’t see how I can help. I mean, I’m still too young to fight.”  
  
Umbridge cocked her to the side and tried to look wise and knowing, which in turn made her look rather as if she were about to regurgitate her food. She had an unfortunate face, Harry thought, there was no way around it. “That depends entirely on how you look at it, doesn’t it?”  
  
Harry felt his breath catch. This was _it_ , he was sure, the chance he had been hoping for but which Dumbledore would never let him take. “The Minister would let me fight?”  
  
“He thinks you could help,” Umbridge said, nodding emphatically. “If nothing else, you can survive the Killing Curse, and that would be a great inspiration for everyone involved.” Her voice turned soft and coaxing. “There’s just one little condition that you have to fulfill before you can fight, Harry.” Harry tried to ignore the way the hair on the back of his neck stood up when she called him that, but it didn’t work very well. “It’s a condition everyone will have to fulfill, so don’t feel like we’re singling you out.” She smiled and took a large inkwell and an even larger red book out of a drawer and set them on top of her desk. A moment later, a huge quill joined them. It looked like it came from an eagle’s wing.  
  
“What is it?” Harry asked. He wished he didn’t sound so nervous. What if he sounded that nervous when he went to fight Voldemort? Voldemort would probably laugh his arse off, and Harry could only hope the laughter killed him.  
  
“An oath of loyalty,” said Umbridge, and opened the book to a certain page. Signatures filled it that looked as if they were made of blood. The ink must be red, Harry thought. “You say that you’ll fight for the Minister and won’t betray him, and then you sign your name.”  
  
Harry blinked for a moment. “That’s all?” he asked. It sounded so simple, which of course meant there was a catch. There was always a catch when the Dursleys asked him to do anything this simple.  
  
“Yes.” Umbridge bowed and simpered and smirked. “You speak the oath aloud. Then you sign your name.”  
  
Harry swallowed and looked at the inkwell. He wished he could cast a spell to see if it was cursed, but maybe the curse was in the quill or the book itself. And anyway, he doubted he could use his wand without Umbridge’s noticing.  
  
He wrestled with himself for a moment. He wanted to do this so _badly_. The prophecy said he had to be the one to fight Voldemort, but he didn’t know if he could do that this year. Dumbledore wouldn’t let him leave the school, he’d said nothing about extra training, and he would probably stick Harry back with the Dursleys this summer. And Harry didn’t know if he would see another wizard between June and September.  
  
But he just didn’t know enough about the oath the Ministry wanted him to take, or the book, or the ink, or the quill. What if he did something wrong in trying to make sure that he could fight, and that meant he couldn’t fight anymore? What if the oath gave the Ministry control of him? That was probably paranoid, but Sirius said that seeing curses everywhere was a good way to survive, and Harry reflected that he would probably know.  
  
“No, thanks, Professor,” he murmured.  
  
Umbridge’s smile dropped away from her face. “What are you saying, boy?” she asked harshly.  
  
“I’m saying that—that I don’t know enough about the oath.” Harry looked at the book. The signatures gleamed and flamed as the light caught on them, and Harry glanced away, uneasy. “Sorry. I’d like to fight. But I’d like to know more about the oath first. Can I talk to the Minister?”  
  
Umbridge swelled up for a moment like a toad trying to call a mate. Harry bit his lip so that he wouldn’t smile. It wasn’t that difficult. He felt wretched. What if he was giving up his best chance to fight?  
  
And then it wasn’t at all hard not to smile, because Umbridge had her wand out and pointing at him.  
  
Harry reacted without thought, the way that Sirius had drilled into him. He jumped out of the chair and rolled under it, whilst Umbridge’s spell, whatever it was, made the cushion of the chair waffle back and forth with a strange sound above him.  
  
He knew the door was locked already, so he didn’t think about trying for it. Instead, he snatched his own wand out of his pocket and snapped, “ _Expelliarmus_!”  
  
The spell went awry because of the angle he was aiming at, and Umbridge retained control of her wand. She advanced towards him. Harry sprang to his feet and began backing up and circling at the same time, trying to put the chair and then other obstacles between them. But Umbridge’s office wasn’t big, and most of the “furniture” in it was the cat plates hanging on the walls, not something Harry could use as a barrier.  
  
“Mister Potter,” Umbridge whispered, and she was smiling again. Harry knew that couldn’t be good, especially because this smile looked the way he thought it was supposed to, wide and scary. “You have no idea how much the Minister wants you on his side, how much we _need_ you. He has empowered me to use any means necessary to secure your cooperation.” She paused. “Any means necessary,” she repeated.  
  
If the mere repetition was supposed to convince Harry, it didn’t work. He’d heard Snape repeating things too many times to believe her. He sneered at her.  
  
“That’s the way you want to play, is it?” Umbridge’s breathing sped up. “ _Crucio_!”  
  
*  
  
The ward had been ringing for long moments before it roused Severus out of his brewing haze.  
  
He looked up and blinked, mind still occupied with thoughts of the potion that he had once meant to use on Seamus Finnigan and now was trying to turn into a new but still “harmless” weapon for the Dark Lord, and then whipped around and stared at the back wall of his office. One of the wards there, a jagged lightning bolt shape that hung frozen on the wall and normally looked like a scratch in the stone, was shaking now and blazing and ringing with a high-pitched tone.  
  
He’d had up several wards that would allow him to detect the use of Dark magic in Hogwarts for years now. It took him time to remember what this particular one, which had never rung, was for.   
  
And then he remembered, and swore and began to run. He was only glad that it was the holidays and he had no students about to explain his actions to.  
  
When Dumbledore had decided to allow Moody—or, as it turned out, Moody’s substitute—to use the Unforgivables within Hogwarts, Severus had assented in public, but constructed a private warning system of his own. If Moody ever used Unforgivable Curses in his office on someone with human flesh, rather than a spider or a mouse, then an alarm would ring and alert Severus.  
  
And though the man was gone, the ward remained, because Severus had been wise enough to put it on the office and not on the person.  
  
He imagined Umbridge with one of his Slytherins trapped under her wand and ran faster.  
  
*  
  
Harry hadn’t known there was pain like this.  
  
Yes, Voldemort had tormented him. Yes, the Dursleys had caused him hunger pangs that he thought were the worst thing he’d always feel. But, as if to prove that life hated him _all_ the time and he shouldn’t give up on estimating its malevolence too early, this was worse.  
  
It felt as though his muscles were being pulled away from his bones. Harry tried to aim his wand, but he lost control and it rolled under Umbridge’s desk. Smirking, the bitch picked it up. Harry tried to concentrate on her and wave his hand and curse her that way, in hopes that his practice over the summer might have made him good enough to do that without a wand, and he couldn’t do that, either.  
  
And worst of all, he was _screaming_.  
  
He was so weak that he couldn’t even hide his pain, and that drove him absolutely mad.  
  
“I can keep doing this,” Umbridge said softly, and somehow Harry could hear her, even under the broken little cries he was making. “I can keep doing this, until your mind snaps and you sign anything I ask you to. And there are people who can use your body and magic against You-Know-Who, and who will, and who won’t ask questions.” She smiled, and that was another smile that looked like it was supposed to, this time like the rictus on a skull. “The amount of time anyone can bear the Cruciatus Curse and still stay sane is ten minutes. It’s been two. Shall we go further?”  
  
Harry wanted to close his eyes, but pain was stretching them open, and he couldn’t look away from Umbridge. She waved her wand with a gleeful little smile, and the agony seemed to double in intensity. Harry felt his body shudder, and wondered what new humiliation he was storing up for himself now. Pissing his pants?  
  
And then the door of the office slammed open, and there was a long, wordless roar, which reminded Harry of a show he’d seen on the telly once about a ship in a storm. The wind ripping through the sails had sounded like that. He craned his neck, trying to see, hoping against hope that Sirius had ridden in on a broom to his rescue.  
  
A moment later, the spell cut off, and he dropped limply to the floor. Harry promptly stretched his neck, took a grateful breath, and then reached out and Summoned his wand to him with a whispered _Accio_.  
  
All that time, he was struggling to hear what was going on. He had to hear as soon as possible, or Umbridge might manage to convince whoever had interrupted that this was all a mistake and Harry _needed_ to be punished. Unless it was Sirius, of course, but she could probably convince anyone else. Harry had seen that happen with the Dursleys time and time again. Most people were willing to be persuaded that he was a troublemaker.  
  
He was so surprised when he recognized Snape’s voice as the other one that he froze for a moment, but then he whispered for his wand even more urgently. If Umbridge could convince anyone in Hogwarts that he deserved Cruciatus, then Harry knew Snape would be the one.  
  
*  
  
Severus flung open the door, fully expecting to see one of his Slytherins who had stayed for the holidays arching his back in midair due to the Cruciatus—he had known it was the Cruciatus Curse and not some other the moment he heard the screams on the stairway—  
  
And saw Harry Potter instead.  
  
The care that he might have used at a time like this was swept away by the bright, blinding stream of his rage. This situation was too outside the norm for him to have a coherent plan already prepared and waiting, and at the moment, all he could focus on were Lily’s eyes, bright with pain.  
  
“ _What_ is going on here?” he inquired icily, but loudly enough that he could catch Umbridge’s attention over the boy’s screaming. He had to glance away from Potter. If he went on looking at him, then he would not be answerable for his actions when it came to the cunt.  
  
Umbridge spun around to face him at once, and opened her mouth wide when she recognized him. Her tongue flicked back and forth like a toad’s dodging after flies. But she offered no explanation, and so Severus acted as he was fully authorized to act when he, a professor of the school, confronted another professor wantonly heaping abuse on a student. He flicked his wand and said in a tone that revealed more than he liked in its coldness, “ _Finite Incantatem_.”  
  
Potter dropped to the ground and lay there for a moment, chest heaving. Severus considered him out of the corner of his eye as he waited for Dolores to speak. Trembling hands, limbs still shaking with minor convulsions, glassy stare and clammy forehead…he was going into shock, but he could still whisper the Summoning Charm and look about anxiously for his wand. Permanent nerve damage if it remained untreated, but it wouldn’t. Severus himself would be responsible for that.   
  
So Harry could wait whilst he looked at Umbridge.  
  
She was trying to smile, but her sickly sweet cover had been blown, and she was wise enough to know it. “I was only disciplining the boy, Severus,” she said, and made fluttering little patting motions with her hands as if she were trying to soothe an invisible cat. “He had a chance to help the Minister. He refused, and pronounced treason besides. I thought it best to teach him that, in an atmosphere of war like this, one is with Minister Fudge or against him.”  
  
“Is that so?” Severus’s gaze had fallen on the red book on her desk. He recognized the red ink at once, of course, in the row of marching signatures on the open page. Signatures of the damned. Whoever signed with that ink gave themselves out to the Ministry to be little more than automatons, their magic and their bodies only instruments to fulfill whatever oath they had made. Severus immediately narrowed his eyes and scanned the page up and down, but he made out none of the messy scrawl he was used to seeing at the bottom of Potions exams and essays. He could not breathe for a moment with the relief that constricted his throat.  
  
Umbridge reached over and shut the book. Her smile had grown weaker still. _Every step you take to cover your tracks_ , Severus thought, holding her eyes and trying to ignore the boy’s raspy whispering behind him, _is only one more sign that reveals you to me._  
  
“Yes,” she said. “And it got a bit out of hand, I’m afraid.” She bowed her head, and the bow in her hair flopped forwards like a dog’s drooping ear. “But I meant no harm, Severus. I was only trying to teach him a lesson.”  
  
Once, he might have believed the lie. It was that more than the obvious fact that she was lying which made Severus turn and face Potter. He knew he couldn’t keep his face straight and serene in front of Umbridge at the moment. “Are you hurt, boy?” he asked, in an emotionless tone that would fool most of the people who heard it. Severus hoped its lack of a sneer would make it speak otherwise to Potter.  
  
But then Potter looked up at him, his eyes wounded and wide, and Severus knew that the barrier between them still stood, the wall of distrust that would keep Potter from noticing any change in him until he had to. He only twitched his head, eyes never leaving Severus’s wand, and ignored the evidence of his shaking hands.  
  
 _The way he would expect me to ignore it._  
  
The boy needed directness. Open statements. Comfort. Truths that he could not distrust. Severus had known that for a month now, and yet he had tried to deny it. Draco would be back in a few days, he had told himself. The boy’s friends would return. Black had visited him soon after most of the students went home. He would make it. He did not _need_ Severus, not in the way so many of his Slytherins had so often needed him.  
  
But there were no more lies possible. Hiding would not work anymore. And in that moment, Severus silently accepted the burden and the way it would change his life.  
  
He had been forced to the brink of his resistance, but as long as he chose this fate for himself and controlled the time when he spoke to Potter about it, it did not have to come out that way. No one else had to know he’d been forced. He could maintain his dignity without sacrificing his pride.  
  
And that made all the difference.  
  
He turned back to Umbridge and said, “I will believe that you were disciplining the boy—”  
  
The woman simpered at him whilst Potter slowly drew his breath in, as if he were scolding himself for placing faith in Severus.  
  
“When I will believe that Albus Dumbledore is the Dark Lord,” Severus said softly, and then aimed his wand straight at her. He would have liked to do all sorts of things to her, but if this ever came out, then he needed the ability to say that he had not performed Dark Arts or Unforgivable Curses himself. What he used then was a simple and yet devastating spell, one that the Ministry couldn’t argue against when it regularly employed wizards who used it. “ _Obliviate_!”  
  
Umbridge’s mouth fell open and stayed that way, her eyes staring vacantly past Severus’s head at the far wall. Severus permitted himself a small, cold smile as he reveled in the thought of all the things he could do to her. Of course they would not happen, but that single moment filled with extensive imagining made him nearly as satisfied as if they had.  
  
“You will remember nothing of summoning Mr. Potter to your office,” he said, quietly but firmly. He had only a small window of time before she began to wake from the Memory Charm and form her memory of what he was saying as words instead of events. “You will only know that you pulled the book from its drawer to brood happily over it, and perhaps you may _dream_ of summoning Mr. Potter. But you know that the Minister is not ready for a step that drastic yet. When you look at the clock, you will be surprised at how much time you lost in the contemplation of the book. Nothing else.”  
  
Umbridge nodded, and sat down dazedly in her chair, and reached for the book. Severus watched her a moment, to be sure she was not faking. But no, her heavy movements and the somnolent blinks of her eyes were consistent with those who remained under the influence of the Obliviate.  
  
“Come,” Severus told Harry.  
  
The boy did not need to be told twice, scrambling after him down the stairs with commendable alacrity. He had finally managed to Summon his wand back. Severus wished for a moment that he showed half that speed when Severus called him for one of their private Potions lessons, but then asked himself, _Would you really want him to operate under such inducement to haste as the Umbridge woman offered?_  
  
And of course there was only one possible answer to that. Severus had been prejudiced and had acted stupid for a long time, but he was not a monster.  
  
When they reached the bottom of the stairs to the dungeons, the boy began to edge away from him and act as if he wanted to go back to Gryffindor Tower. Severus turned his head and studied him, then spoke in a remote voice, as if summarizing facts. He would not confess what he had to say to the boy in public, where anyone left in the castle could hear, and not only for the sake of his pride. Too much concern too early would only send Potter skittering off. “You will sustain permanent nerve damage if you do not take appropriate potions immediately. She held you under the spell for two minutes, didn’t she?” He would not speak the name of the Cruciatus Curse in public, either.  
  
Harry stared up at him, eyes so wide and glassy that Severus was convinced he would faint for some moments. But at last he whispered, “Yes,” with no breath behind the word.  
  
Severus nodded. “Then come with me.” And he set out to his office as if utterly confident the boy would follow. He would, Severus was _almost_ certain. He would not want permanent nerve damage, or even the ghost of it, if it stood the chance of impairing his effectiveness in the war. If that was all he cared about, all he thought himself good for, still it was better to be unimpaired than not.   
  
They reached his office, and Severus did not shut the door all the way, leaving the boy to slip in behind him. _He_ didn’t shut the door all the way, either. Severus did not mind. It was up to him to make the story he had to tell the boy so compelling that he didn’t leave. Cutting off an escape route would probably lead to panic just then.  
  
It did not take him long to find the row of potions that prevented nerve damage, and not only because the organization of his storage cabinet was impeccable. He regularly used these potions when he returned from a session at the Dark Lord’s hands. He took a powerful blue Soothing Potion from the shelves as well, trusting that Potter would not recognize it and thus might be persuaded to drink it before he realized its properties, the way he would not have with a Calming Draught.  
  
When he came out into the main room of his office, it was to see Harry sitting with his head hanging sideways in the chair in front of his desk. Of course he sat up at once and tried to make believe that such a thing had never happened, but it was a striking demonstration of how weak he was. And it hardened Severus’s resolve to the sticking point as little more could have done.  
  
 _He needs too much, and he is too unsupported. I cannot be Black. I cannot be Draco. I cannot be his friends. But I can give him something, besides potions, that none of them can._  
  
“Professor Snape,” Potter began, and from the stubborn expression on his face, he was about to say something stupid. Well, Severus did not intend to listen to it. When Potter extended a hand towards him, he put the first of the potions into it, and watched in well-hidden amusement as the boy blinked at it.  
  
“Well?” Severus asked. “Do you want to avoid permanent nerve damage or not? Drink up.”  
  
With only one more hesitation, Potter tilted his head back and swallowed the clumpy green potion. Frowning in his best imitation of Poppy’s bedside manner, Severus gave him the next course of potions and then the Soothing Potion. Potter swallowed it and shivered a little, his face briefly relaxing into an expression of bliss. Severus nodded knowingly. The Soothing Potion affected the body, but the best thing it did, which a Calming Draught could not imitate, was to calm the agitated chaos in the mind after an experience like Potter’s with Umbridge. It felt wonderful in the moment it happened.  
  
 _The Cruciatus. That it happened under the roof of this school, in the face of all the protections Dumbledore meant to enact—_  
  
Severus shook his head. If he dwelt long on what had happened, then he would hunt the woman down and turn her into a small ball of flesh with all her orifices placed inside, so that she could sense nothing but torture on her delicate exposed nerves and muscles. But he had something more important than vengeance to handle at the moment.  
  
“Harry,” he said. Of course Harry’s eyes opened in wary defensiveness when he heard his first name, but Severus did not intend to let that discourage him. “Did you know that your mother and I were friends?”  
  
Harry wrenched his head to one side and shook it soundly, apparently thinking he could make the information false if he just hurt himself enough. “No,” he breathed. “That can’t be true. You’re lying to me because you want me to trust you again.”  
  
“If that is what I want, lies are a poor means of achieving it,” Severus murmured, and, controlling himself more spectacularly than he had in any confrontation with Dumbledore or the Dark Lord for years, sat down on the edge of the desk. “But I will not hold you here. I will simply speak. If, at any time, you wish to leave, you may step through the door, and we will not speak of this again—or we will speak of it only when you wish it.”  
  
 _That is a sacrifice, to promise to be emotionally available to a Potter._  
  
But at the same time, Severus knew that Harry would not understand things that way, and he could not force him to. He could only meet his eyes evenly, place one hand on his left sleeve that hid the Dark Mark as a reminder of what he had already lost, and wait.  
  
*  
  
Harry gripped himself and willed his hands not to shake. He felt as if he were convulsed with cold, but of course that was because of Umbridge and her stupid Cruciatus. It couldn’t be because Snape was offering him something he wanted.  
  
 _Well, I didn’t want to hear the story about how Snape and my Mum were friends. I didn’t know they were friends. But I wanted to hear a story about my parents, and he’s willing to tell me one._  
  
Harry licked his lips and considered. He had no reason to trust Snape even now. The potions Snape had fed him could have bad effects an hour later, for all he knew. Maybe they even made him more likely to believe whatever lies Snape was about to tell him. That sounded a lot more likely than him just deciding out of nowhere that Harry deserved to know about his friendship with Lily Potter.  
  
 _But…I can check it with Sirius and Remus. They would know whether my mum ever scorned the rest of the Gryffindors, or whatever he’s about to tell me_. Harry relaxed, and tried to ignore the fact that neither Sirius nor Remus had said much about his mum so far. They were happy to tell him stories of his father until the roof fell in, and Harry felt a lot closer to his dad now, but almost every story they told about his mother turned into a story about James, or about Harry himself, or sometimes about the wedding.  
  
“All right,” he said, but in a sharp tone, so that Snape wouldn’t think Harry being willing to stay and listen to a story meant he was forgiven. “Talk.”  
  
Snape inclined his head. He looked strange, Harry thought, his uneasiness reviving. His face was extremely cold and neutral, the way Harry had sometimes seen it look when he marked essays. He looked as if he were thinking about something that neither pleased nor displeased him.  
  
 _But I’m in front of him, so I know_ that _can’t be true._  
  
“Your mother and I knew each other as children,” Snape began slowly, as if he wanted the right words. Or as if it were happening in front of him right now, Harry thought, staring at him. Snape’s eyes were fixed, and the strangest expression had softened the lines around his mouth and nose. Harry would have said he was about to smile if he didn’t know better. “I lived in the same town she did, though not in the same neighborhood. I knew she was a witch the first time I watched her hover in the air.” Suddenly, his eyes came back to the present and he looked at Harry. “Your aunt could tell you about that.”  
  
“Aunt _Petunia_?” Harry knew he sounded scandalized, but he couldn’t help it. The mere idea that Aunt Petunia would talk about witchcraft or magic, even if she had seen her sister perform it, was just impossible.  
  
“She knew me,” Snape said calmly. “She called me ‘that awful boy’ all the time, so she would probably not remember my name without prompting, but she knew me. My father was Tobias Snape. Ask her about that name.” A sudden half-sneer flickered across Snape’s mouth. “My father once chased her off his property because she was picking flowers that he wanted to keep for my mother. She would remember that.”  
  
“Your father was a Muggle?” Harry didn’t know what made him ask that. After all, it wasn’t important to the story, and he really wanted to hear more about his mum, and he already knew Snape was a hypocrite, so why should he be surprised about Snape’s becoming a Death Eater even if he did have a Muggle father?  
  
“Yes.” Snape’s face had folded in on itself again, and he was staring over Harry’s head as if he wanted to study the wards that Harry was sure were wrapped around the door, Snape’s free promise that he could leave or not. “My mother was a witch. Eileen Prince. Once quite proud, though quite ugly. But all she knew was pain and cruelty. So she married someone who would give her more of both.”  
  
Harry held his breath. Any minute, he thought, Snape would remember he was right there and hearing this, and then he would kick Harry out.  
  
“And I grew up, the child of that unhappy marriage,” Snape continued, his voice barely above a whisper, “and thought that I was the unhappiest person in the world until I met your mother. At last I knew what it was like to have a friend. She was initially only interested in being around me because I knew magic, too, but when she heard all the details I could tell her about Hogwarts and the wizarding world, she stayed. And then we became friends beyond that.” He looked at his hands and waited long enough that Harry thought he’d had time to count all the potions stains on them.   
  
“Lily was a contradiction,” Snape whispered. “Someone who could be popular with the prettiest girls and the… _boys_ …around her at the same time as she befriended the outcasts, the ones who had no one else. Like me.” His hand brushed his left arm. “Occasionally, her popular friends tried to drag her away from her less popular ones, but she ignored them. If they insisted too hard, then she stopped spending time with them at all. And no one wanted that. Lily was the central light of our existences. The flower where we all fed.”  
  
Harry felt a pulse of longing in him, and he thought he could see his mother as a young girl, smiling, with Snape on one side of her and his father on the other. He knew from the pictures in the album Hagrid had given him—the album Seamus had burned—that she’d had green eyes and red hair. He could see the green eyes sparkling as she ran, and the red hair swishing behind her.  
  
But now the picture was more complete, because he’d only ever been able to picture her standing beside his father in wedding robes, or holding a baby version of Harry himself in her arms, and now he could see her…with Snape.  
  
It was bizarre. But there it was. And Harry told himself to pay attention, because the story was continuing, which meant that Snape hadn’t noticed that he was still here yet.  
  
“She played pranks with me. She taught me Charms when I struggled with them. She helped me come up with new potions—she was a Potions genius, your mother.” And Snape smiled then, a gentle, genuine kind of smile, and Harry nearly fainted. “She was Sorted into Gryffindor right away, instead of following me into Slytherin as I’d thought she would, but soon enough I saw it didn’t make a difference. She was still kind. And it was true that a Muggleborn wouldn’t have been welcome in the Slytherin House of that era, in any case.” He blinked slowly, and Harry thought part of his mind was surfacing. “It’s still true, in fact.”  
  
Harry wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. Whilst hearing more about his mother was wonderful, he couldn’t help wishing that the Hat had hesitated about her, too, and maybe recommended her for Slytherin. Instead, it sounded like her Sorting was like Draco’s. And Harry knew from Sirius and Remus that his father’s Sorting was the same way. Harry still had no idea why the Hat had said _he_ could fit into two Houses.   
  
_If only I knew that everything about me came from my parents. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about what comes from—him_. Harry rubbed his scar.  
  
“And then,” Snape whispered, “I ruined it.  
  
“I was already associating with those I followed into the Death Eaters, practicing Dark Arts with them. I had a Muggle father, yes, but he was terribly afraid of my mother’s magic and of mine. I had no reason to emulate him. He—exercised cruelty and pain towards me as well as my mother.” Snape shifted his shoulders as if settling a heavy burden.   
  
Harry knew he was staring with his mouth open, which made it more likely that Snape would notice and remember him, but he couldn’t help it. What Snape had suffered with his father sounded like what Harry had suffered with the Dursleys, only worse. _Of course it must be_ , Harry told himself. _I could survive what they did to me, and it sounds like it twisted Snape forever._  
  
“I slipped,” Snape said, this time in such a low voice that Harry could hardly hear him. “I called her—a Mudblood, at a time when I was raging and humiliated, and her caring felt like a different kind of humiliation. Rather the way you might react if your friend Granger rescued you from a beating by Slytherins and then scolded you.” And suddenly his eyes were piercing Harry again, and he looked as if he’d never forgotten anything at all, never recited that story. He went on before Harry could protest that he would never call Hermione a Mudblood no matter what happened, because _he_ didn’t think that way.  
  
“After that,” Snape said harshly, “we parted. She began dating Potter—your father. I became a Death Eater not long after.” He hesitated, as if wondering whether to tell Harry more, and then shook his head. “I regret her loss every day. And at times I see bits of her in you. Another reason to regret that loss.”  
  
Then he sat back, his arms crossed in front of his waist, and regarded Harry as if he were a potion he was waiting to see explode.  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes. _Does he think I’m going to forgive him just because he was my Mum’s friend once? Ha. He never treated me like he remembered her. He doesn’t get let off that easily._  
  
*  
  
It helped that Severus had already told that story once before, though of course with a distinctly different emphasis: to the Dark Lord, when he insisted on knowing exactly why Severus wanted him to spare Lily. He had done then as he did now, as he had done when his father screamed cutting words at him. He had removed his sense of self, the part of his soul that could hurt and ache, into the back of his mind, and let the other emotions emerge. Those emotions were softer and prettier, and Severus knew that Harry would appreciate seeing them more than the usual brusqueness and sarcasm.  
  
 _One part of me must always be hidden._   
  
And to tell the story had been a relief, in a way. Severus had held himself tightly in check and prevented his present emotions from intruding into the past, but he had seen no reason to suspend his observing faculty. The boy’s eyes had widened and shone and had brief glints of compassion.  
  
And longing. Heart-deep, soul-deep.  
  
It was enough to make Severus disgusted with himself, once he let his normal mind swim back into place. _You could have forged a bond with the boy long since, if you had been willing to relax your barriers. You are the only one who can tell him this much of his mother. None of the other friends who knew her well are here. Black and Lupin are of course concerned with James alone, and his legacy in the boy; they saw her as James’s pretty trophy and the mother of his child, not a person in her own right. Minerva and Dumbledore could praise her as a student, but they didn’t know her soul. There was no reason for them to. Lily was too happy to need their help.  
  
As I needed it._  
  
But Severus would not become eaten up by bitterness. That had already taken too much of his time. Yes, bitterness was a defense, and an effective one. But it had prevented him from moving forwards. It had blinded him to Potter and the boy’s efforts to become more than he was; it had blinded him to the abuse. Severus had prided himself on knowing people just as they were, which was the talent a spy needed to survive and the one he had tried to teach Draco. But now he knew that he didn’t know them just as they were.  
  
So he needed to find a different way of relating to them. Telling this story to Potter was a risk, but not as much of one as remaining blinded. And it might win him the prize he had wanted most since Lily died: her son’s trust.  
  
From the storm brewing in the green eyes across from him, Severus suspected that he had not gone nearly far enough to win it all yet. But, whether Harry realized it or not, Severus’s greatest trial was past. The other sacrifices the boy would demand from him were small, compared to baring his soul.  
  
“Just because you missed my mum,” Harry whispered, “doesn’t mean you had to help me.”  
  
Severus blinked at him. He had not expected that accusation.   
  
“And you didn’t need to tear into my _mind_ ,” the boy went on, his voice raising.  
  
 _Ah. This, I expected_. “I tore into your mind to hurt you,” Severus said. “I have no defense other than that.” The words were not, after all, so hard to speak. He wondered that he thought them so. Why, when he had managed to swear loyalty to Dumbledore and the Dark Lord in the same evening? “But when I uncovered the memories of your abuse—” he noticed the boy still shuffled his feet and hands and canted his head proudly, stiffly, as if he didn’t like the notion of referring to his suffering by that word “—then I knew something had to be done. And whilst part of it has to do with the debt I owe your mother, not all of it does.”  
  
Harry laughed scornfully. “You expect me to think that I’m something to you other than my mother’s son? Or my father’s?”  
  
“You have _become_ so,” Severus answered.   
  
“How?” Harry folded his arms and gave him a look, as much to say “this should be good.”  
  
Severus grimaced. He did not like to think about the process of Potter’s becoming more than just another student to him, because it meant he had to expose parts of himself that were, in some ways, weaker than the part of himself that loved Lily, because they were more recent—and connected to a living person who could still hurt him.   
  
But he answered anyway, because he had been wrong, and this was a potential step on the road to being _right._  
  
And because he had seen, from the way Harry and Draco looked at each other before Draco left for the Christmas holidays, that they had reconciled, and God knew what his two students, both of whom needed him, would get up to without his guidance.  
  
“Because of your courage in facing the basilisk,” he said. “Because you were willing to take revenge on Finnigan, and then you retracted the revenge, and because I heard that you might have been Sorted into Slytherin.” Harry started, as if he’d forgotten that Dumbledore had told Snape that. “Because you became friends with Draco, and managed to look past his House. Because you came to me for help with Dark Arts, and did not scorn to learn them as well as the defenses against them. Because you do have some intelligence, no matter how deeply you bury it. Because you are a good liar when you need to be.” He hesitated, wondering if there was a way he could refer to the similarities between them without making Potter stalk off, and settled for saying, “Because you, too, have known cruelty and pain, and yet you do not make all those around you suffer it.”  
  
“In other words,” Harry said, and there was a note of disbelief hovering in the back of his voice, “you came to think of me as an honorary Slytherin.”  
  
 _Students. They will see House traits as the most important things no matter how much we try to discourage them from that_.   
  
But Severus had to admit that he was more likely to choose favorite students based on House traits than most adults, simply because he was Head of Slytherin, and intimately associated with all the functions of the school. He inclined his head, therefore.  
  
Harry spent some moments fidgeting. Severus wondered what he would produce next, something expected or unexpected.  
  
“You like me because of something I’m not,” Harry said abruptly. “Something I chose not to be.”  
  
“You chose to be Sorted into Gryffindor,” Severus said calmly. This was not hard, not hard at all, as long as he kept a tight leash on some of his innate tendencies. He had to wonder, now, if all the years he had congratulated himself on being so much in control, he was really trembling on the edge of constant anarchy, but hadn’t realized it. “You did not choose to be born intelligent, or to know cruelty and pain.” He tried to meet Harry’s eyes, but the boy looked away from him. “And other choices, yes, you made deliberately, but they could be called Slytherin ones as much as Gryffindor ones. Or a mix.”  
  
“But my Gryffindor traits should drive you mad,” Harry said, sounding now as if he were trying to convince himself. “You should want them gone, and they should make you not care for me at all.”  
  
“What they _have_ done,” said Severus, “is make me constantly act in ways that cost me your trust. But that is unacceptable. We must work together now.”  
  
“Because of Voldemort,” Harry said, crossing his arms.  
  
“Yes,” Severus said. “And other things.”  
  
Harry’s mouth fell slightly open. Severus wondered if he was the first adult who had acknowledged the truth of his role in the war to the boy and yet gone on to insist that he was more than that. Black, of course, would adopt the latter position without thinking that Harry knew very well about the former.  
  
 _As much as he can know about it without knowing the full prophecy, of course._  
  
“I don’t understand,” Harry said cautiously, but the next moment his eyes narrowed and he drew his head back like Nagini about to strike. “But I don’t forgive you yet.”  
  
“I know that.” Severus could read the thought shimmering on the surface of the boy’s mind without using any deep Legilimency.  
  
“I can’t trust you.”  
  
That blow struck harder, but Severus simply repeated, “I know that.”  
  
“And yet you want to work with me anyway?” Harry looked away and ran a hand through his hair, following it with an unhappy little laugh. “This is mad.”  
  
“I have offered what I can,” Severus said. “It is up to you to make your decision, based on what I have said and done now, and what I have said and done in the past.”  
  
“Why did you tell Draco?” Harry demanded.  
  
“Because I thought he would handle it in the right way.” Severus cocked his head thoughtfully. “It seems that I was right.”  
  
Harry simply scowled. “And did you go to Dumbledore?”  
  
“Yes. That was useless, as I think you foresaw.”  
  
Harry got up and paced back and forth for several minutes. Then he spun around and pointed a finger at Severus, looking, for that moment, many times taller than he really was.  
  
“I don’t understand you,” he said. “I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. If I take advantage of what you’re offering me, it’s going to be because I _want_ to, not just because the war demands it.”  
  
And then he had left the office, before Severus, blinking, could truly absorb the content of what he had said.  
  
When he did, he gave a small smile, wondering if Harry knew that that statement made the boy’s possible acceptance of his help more welcome to him.  
  
 _Possible acceptance. You have won nothing yet, Severus._  
  
And there would be backsliding in the future, undoubtedly. But, for the moment, Severus thought he could keep himself on this leash when he was around Harry, and do what he could to persuade the boy to trust him with actions he would see as rational and non-confrontational.  
  
 _As long as I allow myself to vent my rage elsewhere_ , he thought, and contemplated, with dark pleasure, the long series of detentions that Longbottom would receive.  
  
*  
  
Harry didn’t know how long he walked through the dungeons, his head bowed and his mind racing. He wasn’t anxious to go back to the upper floors if there was a chance of Umbridge being out of her office, and he knew the Slytherins left over the holidays would be in the Great Hall for dinner right now.  
  
His mind whirled and whirled and whirled over the story Snape had told him, and still couldn’t come to any definite conclusions.  
  
 _I think it was true. At least, it seems a pretty stupid and useless lie. And so does the idea that he started liking me for those reasons he listed.  
  
But if he wants my trust, then he might lie to get it.  
  
But if all those reasons are lies, what reason could he have for wanting my trust in the first place?_  
  
It was a dilemma, and one that Harry couldn’t even write to Ron or Hermione or Draco about, for fear of the letters being intercepted.  
  
In the end, he shook his head and strode up the stairs to retrieve his broom. When in doubt, he flew.  
  
As he circled over the pitch later, the wind tossing through his hair and whipping flakes of snow into his eyes, he made a—temporary—decision.  
  
 _I’ll let him train me. As long as it’s only Dark Arts and nothing else, and as long as he doesn’t say anything too mean. If he does, I’ll leave.  
  
And maybe I can get him to brew me a bloody Dreamless Sleep Potion whilst he’s at it._  
  
As he hurled himself at the ground, Snape’s words about him being a mix of Slytherin and Gryffindor traits came back, and connected with the thoughts he’d had earlier.   
  
_Maybe I’m both Slytherin and Gryffindor just because I am, and not because of my parents_ or _Voldemort. Just because I’m—me, and that’s who I am._  
  
Harry landed and stood there briskly rubbing his arms. He couldn’t say why the thought of being something for himself, rather than in relation to his parents or his enemy, made him tremble more than the snow had.  
  
But he knew he didn’t want to think about it. He set off at a trot for Hogwarts.


	18. Realization

  
“And what did Snape do about it?” Draco was breathless. Harry had told the story of Umbridge’s torturing him, and had just got to the point where Professor Snape had burst in to rescue him. Draco couldn’t wait to hear what happened next. He was trying to imagine all the Dark Arts spells that Professor Snape might have chosen to curse the Ministry’s lackey with, but he was sure that his imagination was nothing next to the real thing.  
  
“He _Obliviated_ her,” Harry said. His face was tense and pale, as if he didn’t like talking about being placed under the Cruciatus.  
  
Draco paused. _Is the next part of the story that bad, then_? Draco had come to accept that Harry was more squeamish than he was, more reluctant to indulge in the revenge that was his right, but Snape wouldn’t let that hold him back. “And what else?” he prompted Harry.  
  
“That’s it.” Harry blinked at him. “He used the Memory Charm to make her forget all about enslaving me.”  
  
“But _what else_?” Draco insisted. “He _had_ to do something else, or she might just decide she hadn’t done it yet and try again!”  
  
“He can’t get away with Dark Arts in the middle of Hogwarts.” Harry sighed and looked away, as if merely telling the story had exhausted him. Draco studied him with an expert eye; he had got used to examining his mother and father for signs of sleeplessness. Something that worried them would probably affect Draco’s life sooner or later. “And the Ministry probably tests Umbridge on a regular basis. Even if Dumbledore supported him, he could still end up in Azkaban if he isn’t careful.”  
  
“But see,” Draco said, certain he must have misunderstood somewhere, “that’s not the way it works. Someone can’t simply torture you and get away with it. McGonagall and Dumbledore should have punished Finnigan more when he burned your things than giving him a month’s detention, and someone needs to punish the Dursleys, and Snape should have done something more to punish Umbridge.” He was starting to suspect that Snape _had_ done something more, but hadn’t told Harry about it. That way he could have the satisfaction of watching the toad-woman writhe in pain without having to confront Harry’s scruples.  
  
Harry turned and gave him a tired smile. Really, everything about him was tired, Draco thought, but he didn’t know why. After all, Harry had deliberately finished his homework for the winter term early so that he could have the Christmas holidays as a real vacation. And surely Black hadn’t been training him _that_ hard. “I don’t care that much about punishment, Draco,” he said. “I care about winning this war.”  
  
“But justice is important, too,” Draco said, deciding at the last moment that Harry would probably prefer the word “justice” to “vengeance”. “Or you’ll just seem weak in everyone else’s eyes.”  
  
“Whose eyes?” Harry asked. “No one but you and Snape know about Umbridge— _she_ doesn’t even know anymore. And only you and Snape and my closest friends know about the Dursleys. Maybe Dumbledore, too,” he added, after a moment of thinking about it. “Seamus destroyed my things years ago, so no one’s thinking about it anymore.”  
  
“But they’ll know, and they’ll do it again,” Draco insisted. “Or are you saying that your family won’t starve and abuse you again when you go there for the summer?” Privately, he had decided that Harry wouldn’t be going anywhere near the Dursleys for the summer. But Harry got so agitated whenever he said something about it that Draco had decided to drop that suggestion for now.   
  
“Leave it,” Harry said in a clipped voice, hunching his shoulders.  
  
“ _No_.” Draco planted his hands on his hips. “I told you before, I have a right to be angry at the Dursleys—and Umbridge and Finnigan too, for that matter. If you won’t do something about them, then I will. They _can’t_ just get away with hurting you like that.”  
  
“I just want to train,” Harry whispered. “I want to fight the war. I want to win—” He paused a moment, as if he was about to say something else, and then shook his head. “It’s not weakness, Draco,” he finished, before Draco could interrupt. “It’s indifference. I’m tired, and I’m already fighting to keep up with my homework and all my training. I don’t have the time to think up punishments on people and hand them out.”  
  
Draco subsided. Let Harry think that was compliance if he wanted. In reality, Draco was going to find a Dark spell and use it on Umbridge, but Harry didn’t need to know that.  
  
“All right,” he said, with what he knew was relative ungraciousness, and wrapped his arms around Harry. Harry stood stiff in the embrace as always, but Draco didn’t care. Just like the vengeance, this hug was more for him than Harry. “Then let’s talk about something else. Do you trust Snape, after he rescued you?”  
  
Harry sighed. “We’re going to resume training again. I need to know things that you can’t teach me and Sirius probably won’t, even if I ask him. But I don’t trust him in the way I trust you.”  
  
Draco’s belly grew heavy with smugness. He wanted to ask if Harry trusted _anyone_ the way he trusted Draco, but he might not like the answer. He decided to gloat over it in silence for a moment instead, and tightened his hug.  
  
Harry finally hugged him back, and Draco felt as though all the separation of the holidays, all the care he’d had to exercise around Lucius to keep him convinced that Draco was still his obedient son and puppet, and all the worry he’d felt about Harry in the meantime, was worth it.  
  
*  
  
“Not like _that_ , boy! Exercise some bloody control!”  
  
Harry threw his head back and glared at Severus. Severus matched him anger for anger. He’d had every _right_ to snap like that. He knew Potter could practice these spells with more grace and ease than he was currently using on them, but something, probably his training with Black, had taught him to put unnecessary power behind them even when he was trying to achieve delicate effects. He needed to master himself, or he was going to destroy Severus’s private training room; it already bore scorch marks on the walls and more than one notch in the stone where Potter’s curses had gone awry.  
  
Severus had thought moving them into the training room was a good idea. It would show how much he trusted Potter, that he was giving him access to a place that most of the rest of the school didn’t know existed, and it would get them out of his office, where it wasn’t possible for either of them to be neutral. But Potter was still arrogant and loud-mouthed and convinced he knew better about ninety percent of the spells Severus showed him. It was madness, Severus thought in frustration, to think that either of them could change their perceptions of each other.  
  
“That’s the seventh time you’ve said that,” Potter said, his voice grinding. “And no matter how much I control myself next time, if I don’t do _exactly_ what you want, then you snap at me again—”  
  
“You are capable of better than this.” Severus wondered if a compliment would calm the boy down. “I know you are.”  
  
“But not capable enough to satisfy you.” Potter gave him an ugly sneer that startled Severus. It had come from Black—it must have—but it looked too much like his own. “I give up. This isn’t going to work. I even told you that I didn’t like to be called boy, and you keep doing it anyway.” He shook his head and started walking towards the door.  
  
Severus controlled the impulse to swear under his breath. He had known this would happen; he had even predicted his latest thoughts, when he would call Potter arrogant within his mind even though he knew that was not true. He needed to put himself back on the leash and hope that would work.   
  
“Pot—Harry.” It was an effort to keep his voice level, but he had done harder things in the last fortnight since the students returned, including not slapping Longbottom with more than three detentions when he had somehow managed to melt three cauldrons in a row. “I—apologize. I did know that, and I promised that I would not do it, and I did not manage.”  
  
Harry paused with his hand on the doorknob, and turned to face him with a frown of disbelief. Severus held his face stern with an effort. At that moment, with his eyes squinted and his glasses more than half slid off his nose, Harry looked like Lily frowning at Severus for not getting a potion right. Severus wished that he showed this resemblance to his mother more often, or at least that Severus could _see_ it more often.  
  
“You’ve said that,” Harry said, after a few moments of tense silence had passed. “But you keep backtracking.”  
  
“I anticipated the backtracking.” Severus folded his arms, and, within the protection of his sleeves, dug his fingernails into his arms. It had been one of the ways he maintained control when his father was once again ranting on about how useless and worthless both Severus and his mother were. Eileen Prince had cried silent tears, but that was not an escape available to her son. “Still, whilst I might forgive myself easily, you will not. I should have anticipated that. And I should certainly have controlled my language if I wanted you to control yours,” he added, which he thought a generous concession. Harry had sworn several times during the casting process, and Severus had corrected him with each word, telling him that vulgar language was the sign of an uneducated mind.  
  
Harry chewed his lip in intense thought. Then he said, “I know that I’ve been putting too much power behind my spells. But you’ve never showed me how to do it otherwise.”  
  
Severus nearly snorted. _Of course he would make a gesture of reconciliation in the form of a demand_. But at least it was a demand he could answer. He had wanted to avoid instructing Harry in something so basic, thinking it better if he discovered finesse on his own, but once again, he had to remind himself that Harry was not Draco and did not do well when encouraged to explore intellectual concepts on his own.   
  
_Perhaps because he has been left to too much intellectual exploration of all kinds on his own_ , he thought. _His relatives did not teach him proper behavior; he had to learn that their actions towards him were wrong through observation, and even now I do not know that he fully realizes the essential evil of what they have done. Dumbledore has coddled him but not explained that much, and he has no idea of his full importance in the prophecy and the battle to come. Yes, a little explanation would perhaps go far._  
  
“You need to think more of the effect to achieve than the way in which you achieve it,” he said. “You are a powerful wizard. You need not be so determined to put your full strength behind any spell, because you accomplish them with only a tenth of the effort that you put in now. Now, someone like Longbottom? Perhaps would not. But you will.”  
  
“Am I as powerful as Voldemort?”  
  
Severus hissed at him in spite of himself. He still flinched at the Dark Lord’s name, and had tried to encourage Harry to call him by a title, but he had refused. “You are not,” Severus said, “because no one is. But it is his cunning and control that are more dangerous to you than his power. You might match him in control if not in raw strength.”  
  
“But I have to be as powerful as he is,” Harry whispered, rubbing his scar. “How am I going to defeat him otherwise?”  
  
Severus frowned. _At least his obsession with the power of his magic is understandable now_. ‘There are other ways,” he said. “Considering the study the Dark Lord has made of Dark magic, he most likely has protections that could not be defeated by hurling spells at him. You will need to exercise cunning in dealing with him in any case.”  
  
“Then I should be learning to defeat those protections!” Harry took a step forwards, his eyes flaring with a panic that Severus found odd. At times, the boy acted as if he knew the prophecy, but that was impossible. Dumbledore would never have been stupid enough to tell that to someone whose skill at Occlumency was not great.  
  
“You are learning the Dark Arts for a _reason_ , Harry.” Severus put enough of a snap in his voice to recall the boy’s attention to himself. “I do not know what those protections are in detail; no one does, or I would be teaching you specifically to combat them. But this is the best compromise we have.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“If you make yourself sick with anxiety,” Severus said, “then you will not be able to control your spells.” He held Harry’s eyes and waited until the boy had returned himself to some semblance of calm. “Now.” He raised his wand. “Cast the Blinder’s Curse again, and this time work on creating the perfect star of light, rather than throwing so much power behind it that you break the shields and blind us both for good and all.”  
  
Harry stood breathing like an impatient mule for a moment, and then mastered himself enough to nod shortly. Severus was pleased, though he thought showing that emotion would be counterproductive right now; it would only distract the boy from his work.   
  
_But it is good to know that Harry can please me, at least._  
  
*  
  
“Up!”  
  
Sirius’s curse skittered across the floor towards him. Harry leaped in the air and let it pass beneath his feet.   
  
“Down!”  
  
Though Sirius said that, he aimed low. Harry rolled away from the curse and aimed his wand at Sirius, triumphant. He’d got into a position where he could bypass the shields Sirius had set up, and that meant he could catch him across the body and win the fight. Of course, he would use one of the harmless hexes or jinxes that Sirius had tutored him in, and not the curses that Snape thought were necessary for him to know.  
  
But the world shuddered and a strange red haze bled in from the corners of his eyes, and Harry’s hand jerked and his mind tumbled through the memories of his latest session with Snape, and then the word that he didn’t want to speak rose to his lips anyway. “ _Convello_!”  
  
The spell opened like a pair of glowing white pincers around Sirius’s skull and pressed down. Harry had recognized the spell the moment he spoke it. It was meant to shatter and batter someone’s body to pieces, starting with the skull.  
  
And he had cast it with the precision and control that Snape had tried to drill into him during their latest training session—and Sirius, not expecting it at all, screamed in pain and raised his wand with a shaking hand, clearly unable to remember the countercurse.  
  
Horrified, with the red haze gone from in front of his eyes now, Harry choked out the appropriate spell, and the pincers vanished. Sirius rolled on the floor and shut his eyes for a moment, panting. One hand spread and dug his fingers into the stone as if he had to hang onto a violently tilting planet.  
  
“Well,” Sirius said, after long moments when he was trying to catch his breath and Harry was too sick to speak. “ _That_ was different.”  
  
At least his words unlocked Harry’s voice. “Sirius, I’m so, so sorry! I don’t know why I did that! Can you—”  
  
Sirius rose to his feet and crossed the room in an instant, clasping Harry close. “Of course, Prongs,” he whispered. He had taken to calling Harry by his father’s nickname since he’d seen Harry cast a Patronus that he said was exactly the way James used to look when they ran through the Forbidden Forest together. “Don’t worry about it. If anything, that shows that you’re developing the right instincts, because the duels you’ll face out in the field are nothing like the little games we play. Maybe we should move on to more powerful magic. How would you like to learn healing?”  
  
Harry smiled gratefully. “Yeah. I’d like that.”  
  
Inwardly, he was just as glad to listen as Sirius began an enthusiastic explanation. It gave him time to try and work out what had happened within his mind and to wonder if Hermione was right—if his lack of sleep meant that he couldn’t properly concentrate on other things and he should do something about that.  
  
 _But asking someone for help means that they’ll know I’m weak and can’t just ignore my nightmares.  
  
And Draco’s right about one thing. Making me look weak in other people’s eyes is not what I want to do, as long as they’re people I care about. And Snape might not mean to use this against me, but I know he would._  
  
And then the despair that had been haunting his thoughts for months now, since he’d really thought _through_ the prophecy, crept back in.  
  
 _Does it really matter who does what to me, when I know that I’m going to die fighting Voldemort?_  
  
*  
  
“Clear your mind—”  
  
“That’s what Snape said to me, too.” Harry glared at Draco under his fringe. “But he didn’t explain what he _meant_ , and you’re not doing it either!”  
  
Draco took a deep breath to smother his own impatience. It actually wasn’t that hard. These days, he was far more impatient when he was away from Harry. Those strange feelings that he’d felt before the row with Harry had come back again, and he didn’t know what to do half the time he was with him—but away from him, the only thing he could think about was that Harry might have a girlfriend or might be working too hard or might be going after the Dark Lord _tonight_. It was better for Draco when they were together.  
  
And he didn’t think he’d misread the way Harry’s faced brightened for him and only him, or the way that his eyes followed Draco around the room when he explained Occlumency—Draco found it easier to pace when he was teaching something—or the excuses he invented to touch Draco’s shoulders and hair. Yes, all of that meant something.  
  
Now, if only he knew _what_.  
  
“All right,” he said, yanking his mind back to the problem at hand when Harry’s glare intensified. “Professor Snape means that you should meditate until everything unimportant and distracting is out of your head. I don’t think that works, most of the time. What _I_ mean is that you make one thing more important than anything else, and clear your mind behind and below that.”  
  
“That sounds good,” Harry said, but he was skeptical and didn’t want to hope too much; Draco could tell by the way he looked down and picked at a thread hanging off the sleeve of his jumper. “How exactly do you do it?”  
  
“Well,” Draco said, bracing himself to be laughed at, “lately I think of my mother.” And that was what he did, half the time. The other half of the time he thought of Harry, but he didn’t think Harry was ready to hear that, yet.  
  
Harry gave him a quick glance. Then he shook his head a little and said, “And concentrating on her is enough to make everything else dim into insignificance?”  
  
He sounded wistful. Draco relaxed, and reminded himself that that wasn’t a surprise. Harry wasn’t like Blaise, who would have said something cutting about Draco’s dependence on his mum. Harry didn’t have parents, and wanted them. Of course, Draco wouldn’t wish a father like Lucius on anyone, but if it had been possible, he would have traded with Harry. He wanted more freedom—  
  
 _But not more responsibility_ , he thought suddenly, _and I certainly don’t want his relatives_. It was sometimes easy to forget that Harry was abused, too, until he said something about parents or food or Draco really _looked_ at his face and wrists. He acted as if it didn’t matter, and he could fool other people into thinking it didn’t, too. Draco thought that was the real reason that Harry’s abuse had gone unrecognized for so long.  
  
“Yes.” Draco pitched his voice low and stepped towards Harry. “Close your eyes.” Harry looked vaguely alarmed, but closed his eyes anyway. “Now,” Draco said, and made his voice singsong the way he imagined Narcissa’s voice being when he thought of her. It was the voice she used to tell him bedtime stories with. “Think of the best memory you can, and surround it with other pleasant thoughts—”  
  
Harry popped one eye open. “I thought the point of this was to get _rid_ of the other thoughts?”  
  
“You’re exasperating,” Draco said, and Harry scowled at him. “We’re not there yet.” With an effort, he thought of his mother again and resumed the singsong voice. “Just trust me. Go ahead and surround your pleasant thought with others.”  
  
“Trusting you has never been the problem,” Harry muttered. “It hurts not to trust you.” He shut his eyes obediently and squinted them, as if that would somehow solve the problem of his lack of concentration.  
  
His words—which Draco didn’t think he’d been meant to hear—stunned Draco into silence for a long moment, but he managed to take a deep breath and continue at last. “When you think you’ve filled your mind with that, start stripping out the other thoughts one by one, and concentrating on that single figure. My mother floats in my mind as if she had wings. Is your thought a person? Can you see him or her doing that?”  
  
“Yeah.” Harry’s voice was dreamy, calmer than Draco had ever heard it. _He’s probably thinking about his parents, or Black_ , Draco thought, and refused to pay attention to the surge of desolate feeling through him. “Yeah, the other thoughts are going, and he’s smiling at me.”  
  
 _Black, then_. “Good,” Draco whispered. “Now imagine that person turning into a mass of white light, which hovers in front of your mind. He’ll shield all your memories, all your knowledge, from an attack.” He waited a few minutes until a tranquil smile had worked its way across Harry’s face, and then backed up, carefully aimed his wand, and whispered, “ _Legilimens_.”  
  
He promptly ran into the sort of thin, flexible wall that Professor Snape had first taught him to use, even though Draco had moved on from those teachings some time ago. Draco thought he could have got through it if he really pushed, but he wasn’t about to destroy Harry’s confidence in his very first successful performance of Occlumency ever. He pulled back and beamed, then realized that Harry’s eyes were still shut and he couldn’t see him. “Harry,” he said impatiently. “Open your eyes and look at me.”  
  
Harry’s eyes blinked slowly, dreamily, open. Draco grinned at him, and hoped that he was showing all the approval he felt, because he didn’t think Harry got enough approval. “You did it,” he said. “You kept me out.”  
  
Harry stared at him in wonder, then grinned and shook his head. “That’s actually kind of surprising.”  
  
“Am I such a bad teacher?” Draco pretended to cuff him on the back of the head, and Harry ducked away from him, laughing.  
  
“No,” Harry said. “Just that you couldn’t get past yourself.”  
  
Draco stared at him, jaw dropping open slightly. “You were thinking about me?” he blurted at last, with much less than the grace his mother and Professor Snape would have wanted him to have.  
  
“Yes, of course.” Harry cast him a confused glance, as if to ask what else he would have been thinking about.  
  
Draco didn’t want to give him a lot of time to consider that question. Instead, he said briskly, “And now on to the next step of Occlumency, after clearing your mind.” Harry sat up and paid prompt attention.  
  
Meanwhile, Draco was as smug as he’d been when Harry hugged him after he came back from Christmas holidays. _He trusts me most. He finds me most pleasant to think about. And that means that I’m avoiding a lot of the pain I would feel if he thought about someone else._  
  
But why he would feel so much pain, or why this was so important—  
  
Draco didn’t know, and he wished he did.  
  
*  
  
“I can keep going.” Harry’s face was shiny, pouring with sweat, determined.  
  
 _You are likely to kill yourself if you try_ , Severus thought, but did not say. He had already discovered that, though Harry would accept straightforward explanations readily, he did not enjoy being told that he had to slow down or that his exhaustion was dangerous. Severus had to come up with a different method of distraction.  
  
He stretched his arms over his head so that his sleeves fell away from them. He anticipated that Potter would see the Dark Mark and ask something about the initiation ceremony. Severus had already told the story several times, mostly to members of the Order of the Phoenix, and had perfected an emotionally stripped-down version that did not hurt him to speak.   
  
Instead, Potter turned and looked at his other arm. “What’s that?” he asked, even pointing. _Vulgar child_. Among the many things that his abusive relatives had not trained him in—such as kindness, the satisfaction of hunger, and resting when he was tired—was good manners.  
  
But Severus had already planned to answer questions to get Potter to relax, so he followed the pointing finger and started a little when he saw the curving scar along the flesh of his right arm. Yes, of course he remembered how he had received it, but it never hurt the way the Mark did and was of incomparably less significance in his life. And he was not sure the story was one he wanted Potter to hear—  
  
 _Wait. It involves Lucius. Yes. I think it best that he hear it, so that he may understand that Draco’s father is not simply someone who loves him, and can be a dangerous enemy_. Since Lucius had stood so high in the Dark Lord’s counsels ever since his return, Severus knew Harry would face him on the battlefield someday, and he wanted no absurd scruples that would prevent Harry from killing Lucius because he was Draco’s father.  
  
“I received that as the result of an irremediably stupid wager,” he said dryly. “I was with Lucius one night, and we had had more to drink than was good for us, celebrating the impending birth of his son.” He did not think it necessary to mention that they were also celebrating the death by torture of several Muggles. He wanted to keep Harry looking at the darkness of his true enemies, not endlessly rehashing his own atonement. “Lucius looked at me with a small smile and bet that I could not take away a Saberclaw’s egg.”  
  
Harry looked immediately intrigued. _It’s a tale of reckless danger, of course he would be,_ Severus thought. “We haven’t studied Saberclaws in Care of Magical Creatures.”  
  
“You aren’t likely to, though Merlin knows that Hagrid would love to get his hands on an egg.” Severus shook his head. “They were a private breeding experiment conducted three decades ago by a rich pure-blood wizard who wanted to create dangerous creatures for blood sport. They have only ever lived on his estate. Imagine a dragon, if you will, but considerably smaller, with only two legs, and with poisonous claws on its wings instead of fiery breath. The claws are as long as swords, and they fight with them. The females are larger than the males and _extremely_ protective of their nests.”  
  
“So what did you do?” Harry breathed, looking fascinated. Severus had not realized it would give him such a rush to have those green eyes looking at him in admiration.  
  
“Crept into the Saberclaw’s cave,” Severus said, his voice growing dryer than ever as he mentally admonished his younger self. What in the name of God had he thought he was _doing_? “Found a young female asleep on a nest of sixteen eggs, and thought she wouldn’t miss one. Took an egg from under her wing, and was scratched by the claw in passing. Woke her, and ran away from her up the tunnel with her screaming and stamping and snorting and spitting behind me.” He winced. He still didn’t like to remember his wild flight up the tunnel, past flying walls of stone, with the warmth of the venom working its way up his arm and the beast clanging her claws off the rocks behind him.  
  
“ _Wow_.”  
  
The boy seemed a bit _too_ fascinated, and Severus suspected that the point he was trying to make would be lost. “Lucius dared me to do that knowing I would probably die, but also that my pride compelled me to go forwards, and that my judgment was impaired by Firewhisky,” he said simply. “I never want you to forget what he is.”  
  
“How can I do that?” Harry gave him a grim smile with some of the light still in his eyes. “I see his shadow in Draco’s face every day.”  
  
And before Severus could react to that unexpectedly insightful comment, Potter straightened, his face a normal color again. “Are you ready to resume the duel?”  
  
*  
  
Harry stumbled down the stairs to the common room, his hand on the wall to guide himself. He was shivering, and couldn’t stop. His nightmares seemed to be getting worse instead of better. This time, the _details_ ¬—Draco’s body being stripped of flesh, then boiled so that it became a pristine skeleton, except for bits of skin clinging to the bones—were so sharp and clear it was as if he’d actually seen it happen.  
  
“The Dreamless Sleep didn’t work, then?”  
  
Harry started and almost fell down the last stairs, but then straightened with a small sigh. He should have known that Hermione would be waiting up for him. She had been too concerned about his taking the Dreamless Sleep Potion she’d brewed in the first place not to. Harry managed to walk the rest of the way down and take a chair next to her, staring into the fire. At least the twisting, dancing flames would give him something that wasn’t a flayed Draco to think about. There hadn’t been any fire in this dream.  
  
Hermione leaned slowly into his field of vision. Harry ignored her until he thought she would probably cough and act worried about him, which would be worse. Reluctantly, he turned and met her eyes.  
  
“I think you should tell someone,” Hermione said, returning to the argument they’d been having for weeks.  
  
“No.” Harry drove the heels of his hands into his eyes. They felt as if he’d run through a wind that carried blowing sand. He was getting enough sleep to keep himself functional, barely, but no more. And the dreams were increasing in sharpness and vividness, he admitted reluctantly to himself. They were definitely worse now, in early March, than they’d been throughout February.  
  
“But I don’t think I brewed the Dreamless Sleep right.” Hermione sounded near tears, which made Harry stare into the fire again when he took his hands away from his face. “Professor Snape or Madam Pomfrey would actually give you the potion you need, Harry—”  
  
“And Snape would make fun of my nightmares, and Madam Pomfrey would insist on a full check-up and discover the abuse,” Harry whispered, though he was no longer sure his first statement about Snape was true. “No, Hermione, I’m not going to risk that.”  
  
“You can’t go on this way, Harry.” Hermione was patting his shoulder, but tentatively, as if she realized that sympathy was as likely to get her snapped at as anything else.   
  
_Sure I can_ , Harry thought. _Just a few more months. Then I’ll hopefully know enough to defeat Voldemort and win the battle altogether._  
  
“I know,” was all he said, to placate Hermione, and then he listened again, patiently, to her theory about how his abuse had contributed to the nightmares. Harry had never told her in detail what they were about, because that would involve _reliving_ them, so she thought he mostly dreamed of the Dursleys.  
  
It was pleasant to sit there listening to the words of a friend who cared about him, and, although she was bossy and prying, was not as bossy and prying as either Draco or Snape would have been. Harry could close his eyes and drift, adding little mutters and nods to the conversation as appropriate.  
  
So long as he didn’t fall asleep.  
  
*  
  
Draco chuckled under his breath as he slid the book he’d been reading back onto the shelves and left the library. He’d finally found the perfect spell to cast on Umbridge, after more than three months of searching. No matter how many times he searched out a spell, it didn’t seem cruel enough for what she’d done to Harry—tortured him with real hatred behind the Cruciatus, which Draco recognized from his description of how much it hurt.  
  
And then he’d been watching her idly at dinner the other night, and seen her dig into the pudding served for dessert, closing her eyes in ecstasy all the while. And, _finally_ , he had known what he could do.  
  
The spell he had found was perfect. It would gradually increase Umbridge’s desire for sweets, but she would think it was her own tastes driving her to eat them. And the sweets would react badly with her body, rotting her from the inside. First her teeth would go, and then her stomach, and then her heart would get weaker. She would die what looked like a natural death over a number of years. But no more than five, the book had said.  
  
Draco couldn’t wait to cast the spell. He thought dinner would be the best place, and it would fit his sense of irony to direct it at Umbridge just as she lifted a forkful of tart to her mouth.  
  
He chuckled again, and then stopped. Harry’s voice was speaking from ahead. He would have recognized it if it were speaking on the other side of a dark room and from under that Invisibility Cloak he no longer owned, Draco thought.  
  
What he _didn’t_ recognize was the voice that followed it, too earnest, too soft and confiding. That meant that it wasn’t one of Harry’s friends whispering to him around the corner, and pausing to let him reply, and then speaking urgently again when he did.  
  
Draco sped up. He was almost running by the time he reached the corner. He managed to close his eyes and take a single deep breath, mustering his control in the way that Professor Snape had taught him, before he peered around the corner and at the two people standing there, facing each other.  
  
One was Harry, of course. The other was a girl whose long red hair immediately marked her out as a Weasley. Draco narrowed his eyes. Of course he knew that Weasley had a little sister, but he hadn’t ever paid her any attention, dismissing her as part of the landscape of Gryffindors that crowded around Harry.  
  
He _certainly_ would have noticed if she and Harry had ever spent any substantial time together.  
  
“I’m just worried about you, that’s all,” Weasley was insisting softly, her eyes narrowed and studying Harry in a way that made Draco want to go over and shove her into the wall hard enough to break her skull. “You’re always sneaking out of the common room at night, you’re obviously not getting enough sleep, you won’t talk about your troubles with anyone…Harry, what’s going on?”  
  
And she reached out and laid her hand _on his arm_.  
  
Harry was smiling, doubtless giving some polite and reasonable and noncommittal answer, but Draco couldn’t hear what he said over the blood roaring in his ears.  
  
She was touching him. _On his arm._  
  
And Harry was _letting her_.  
  
Draco drew his wand without even being aware of it. He wanted to hex her. No, he wanted to use the curse that he’d found to use on Umbridge on her instead. He wanted to make her writhe and squeal with pain. He wanted to hit Harry until he apologized for letting the girl touch him. He wanted to hit Harry with _Scourgify_ after _Scourgify_ until he could be certain that every taint of Weasley’s caress was gone from him. He—  
  
And then Draco forced himself to calm down and start breathing normally, because really, he had no _reason_ to feel this way. He had seen Granger stand that close to Harry and touch him before. He’d seen Weasley hug him after Quidditch games. Neither of them had ever provoked this violent reaction.  
  
 _It’s because this Weasley is a girl—  
  
But then I should have reacted to Granger the same way._  
  
Draco blinked rapidly and slid his hand up and down his wand. Now Weasley was talking again, looking up at Harry and moving her moist open lips in a way that she probably thought was seductive.  
  
 _It’s not_ , Draco wanted to snarl, wanted to scream. _It’s not, bitch, and you should get away from him, and you can’t have him, and—  
  
You can’t have him._  
  
Violent shivers broke out over Draco’s body as he actually _listened_ to his thoughts, which was something he hadn’t done in too long. And he took one step backwards, then another. He didn’t think they were soundless, but on the other hand, Harry and his new Weasley were too involved in one another to notice.  
  
 _I’m acting like I’m jealous of Weasley the way I was jealous of Chang. I’m jealous of anyone Harry pays attention to—but that would have to include his friends. I’m jealous—  
  
I’m jealous of people I think he might date._  
  
And the confusing feelings surged over him again, and Draco did the only thing he could.  
  
He turned and ran for Professor Snape’s office.  
  
*  
  
Severus lifted his head in surprise as someone knocked on the door. It was Saturday afternoon, and he’d looked forwards to a quiet few hours of marking essays; Harry did not have lessons with him today, and no students had been stupid enough this week to merit a Saturday detention. “Enter,” he said.  
  
Draco came tearing into the room, slammed the door behind him, and turned to face Severus with his arms extended across the door as if he thought a wild beast would try to get through it. His breathing was wild and frantic.  
  
Severus stood and promptly cast several locking and privacy charms on the door. His one thought was that Lucius had contacted and threatened the boy, or actively tried to kill him. Perhaps he had read important information out of Draco’s mind after all, despite all their cautions with Occlumency and Lucius’s poor Legilimency.  
  
Or perhaps he had at last set a date for his son to meet the Dark Lord.  
  
“Draco,” he murmured, determined to keep his own tone calm despite the rising level of tension within him. “Tell me what happened.”  
  
“I’m in love with Harry,” Draco said, looking and sounding utterly miserable.  
  
Severus paused. Then he set his wand back on his desk and leaned against it, rubbing his forehead and sighing noisily.  
  
He had known this would come out sooner or later. He had sensed it, ironically, from Potter’s defensiveness when Draco’s name was mentioned first, and then again when Draco took fire at the account of Harry’s abuse. But he had expected at least another year before he would have to deal with it, given how oblivious both children seemed, and he had expected Draco to be shocked by the possibility and then put it aside. After all, he already knew he would have to marry and have children for the Malfoy line. And Severus was fairly certain that Harry had never once considered that he might not be straight. Yes, this was an infatuation that would pass.  
  
Now it seemed as though most of him had always known better and was laughing at the rest. _An infatuation that lasted for years_ , that part of his mind murmured at him. _A bond so powerful that it made Draco defy his father when nothing else could. If he defied Lucius and lied to him about his allegiance to the Dark Lord, did you really think that he would go obediently along with Lucius’s plans for his marriage?_  
  
Severus silently bid farewell to his vision of a simple few next years and welcomed, not cordially, a complicated new life. “Does he know?” he asked. It was not the best first question, but he needed to know if he would be dealing with a sulky Potter in short order.  
  
“No—no.” Draco’s breathing was returning to something like normal, and Severus congratulated himself for his serene example. But then Draco began pacing back and forth, waving his arms, and Severus realized he might have thought too soon. “I saw him standing with Weasley’s little sister, and I realized I was jealous of her because Harry might date her, and I was jealous of Chang the same way, and—” He turned to Severus, his eyes beseeching. “Professor Snape, what am I going to _do_? Harry doesn’t have any idea, and I don’t think he’ll want to date me. My father will murder me. And I can’t—I can’t give this up. I can’t be his friend.” He closed his eyes and put a clenched fist to his forehead. “I need more than that from him,” he whispered. “I think maybe I always have.”  
  
“Kindly do not say such things,” Severus said sharply, and shuddered as he shoved the disturbing vision of twelve-year-olds in love from his mind. “What makes you think Harry will not want to date you?”  
  
Draco dropped his hand and looked at Severus as if he were stupid. “Because he was standing next to Weasley’s little sister!” By the end of the sentence, he was shouting, and Severus thought it appropriate to restore his calm by a tap of his wand against the desk that cast a mild Silencing Charm in Draco’s direction.  
  
“Standing next to her does not mean he wants to date her,” Severus said in measured tones, whilst silently berating fate for making him say things this ridiculous. But Draco was his favorite student, and the moment Harry realized what Draco was thinking, his equilibrium would surely be disturbed. A moody Harry would make it more likely that some of the progress Severus had made with him was undone.  
  
 _And you don’t want to see them suffer unnecessarily._  
  
Severus acknowledged the truth of that, but dismissed it as unimportant. Draco seemed to be working to inflict unnecessary suffering on himself whether or not Severus intervened.  
  
“There is only one rival you have to fear, Draco,” he said, and watched in well-concealed amusement as the boy snapped to attention. “The war. It demands all Harry’s time and attention, and I believe he is convinced that he will die the next time the Dark Lord attacks. He will probably not want to date you, yes, but either because he will feel he cannot afford the distraction, or because he will follow some noble Gryffindor notion of not wishing you to become fond of him when he fears he may die.”  
  
Draco’s nostrils quivered, and his mouth moved. Severus cautiously removed the Silencing Charm. Luckily, Draco didn’t yell, which would have forced Severus to replace it. “I won’t let him do that,” he said.  
  
“Then you will tell him?” Severus asked casually.  
  
Draco’s mouth worked open and then shut. “I’ll have to think about that,” he said, weakly.  
  
Severus rose to his feet. “Do so. This is not the end of the war, Draco, and neither is it the most important thing with which you have to deal at the moment. No,” he added, when he saw Draco’s mouth starting to open, “it is _not_. Decide how to deal with it and conceal it from your father, and from Harry if you plan to. I will not betray your secret as I have betrayed others. But neither do I want you to spend more time worrying over it than it is worth.”  
  
“It’s worth everything,” Draco said despondently, but, perhaps seeing a certain expression on Severus’s face, left the office before he could say anything more laden with unfortunate teenage melancholy.  
  
Severus sat down behind the desk and warily watched the door, counting heartbeats. Only when he reached a hundred did he relax, convinced that Harry was not about to burst through the door and declare some horrid revelation in turn.  
  
 _What did I do to deserve this_? he demanded silently of any higher power that might be listening. _Surely this cannot form part of my penance for betraying Lily, that I should have to listen to the confessions of love-struck teenagers._  
  
No higher power deigned to answer him.  
  
*  
  
“I’m _not_ ,” Harry said, wondering how he had got here and why Ginny insisted on talking to him as if she were Hermione. He had already heard one person retreat around the corner. Someone would come along soon, and see them, and get the wrong idea, and then Harry would have to deal with one more rumor. There were already several circulating that he was dating Hermione, for God’s sake.  
  
“But you wouldn’t necessarily know.” Ginny’s eyes met his somberly. “Remember, Harry, I was possessed by V-Voldemort. I know what it was like. Do you remember where you go every night? Are your nights totally dreamless?”  
  
Harry gave a barking laugh before he caught himself. “Merlin, if only.” He pressed his hand over his scar and shook his head. “No, Ginny, I have nightmares all the time. Nightmares about what’s happened and what could happen. And I go to meet Snape for extra training.” He thought it was safe enough to tell her that, since Hermione and Ron had already figured that much out. “I’m not possessed. I remember everything.”  
  
Ginny took a step back from him, sucking on her lip, and then shook her head slowly, eyes never leaving his. “All right. If you’re sure.” A hesitation, and then she asked, “And what about your scar?”  
  
“It burns,” Harry admitted. “But it’s burned since last year, when Voldemort came back. I think I would know by now if he was possessing me. I mean, you said that it was strange, that you knew something was happening even if you didn’t really know what.” He smiled a little at her, though he knew it was strained. “And I promise that I don’t have a diary around.”  
  
At last, Ginny sighed, hugged him, said, “You know that I’m here if you ever have to talk,” and walked away.  
  
Harry closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, shuddering. The burning from his scar had worked through his body, and he felt achy and shivery.  
  
 _Because you haven’t had enough sleep_ , he told himself. _And you’ve already shared enough with Draco and Snape. Right now, you have to go see Sirius, and he’ll fuss over you if you’re visibly hurt and depressed. So do it._  
  
Taking a deep breath, Harry forced a smile onto his face, opened his eyes, and then went in search of Sirius.  
  
 _Just one more thing I have to do. And probably not for much longer._


	19. Occlumency

  
“Are you ready for something more extensive, then?” Draco took a step back and managed to smile at Harry, and it wasn’t even much of a strain. Since he had discovered he was in love with Harry, Draco’s violent emotions had calmed down. He enjoyed spending time with Harry more than before.   
  
Of course, now he had a new source of anxiety, because he had no idea how or when to tell Harry the truth—especially since Harry showed no sign of realizing it himself.  
  
Harry took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah. You’ve been pretty gentle with the Legilimency so far. I need to see what else will happen if you probe harder.” He grinned at Draco, the sweat around his hairline showing how nervous he was—far more than he needed to be, Draco thought—and braced his feet.  
  
Draco took a few steps back and composed himself. By now, it was almost instinctive to use Harry’s image to secure his mind behind shields stronger than anything Harry could manage. His mind drained and cleared, and his breathing relaxed until he felt as if he were ready to fall into a trance. This was the best way to teach Occlumency, he’d discovered. Be calm, and your student would have to be calm, too. It was no wonder that Professor Snape had failed to teach Harry, if they were both tense and angry.  
  
Harry smiled back at him, his face open and trusting. And you did have to have a vast trust in someone, Draco had found out, for Occlumency to work. Another reason Snape had never been able to teach Harry.  
  
 _And it’s time to use your magic on him before you start talking yourself out of this calmness._  
  
“ _Legilimens_ ,” he whispered.  
  
His mind leaped forwards and began to play against Harry’s shields like waves trying to wear down rocks. Harry frowned in concentration, but so far his shields held. Draco smiled. That was better than he had expected Harry to be able to do at this stage, really.  
  
On the other hand, he would have to hold against more determined attacks than this. So Draco said, “ _Legilimens_ ,” again and sent his mind driving towards a weakness in the fortress of Harry’s mind. Professor Snape had praised him for having the gift to discover weaknesses like that, but Draco himself was not sure how he did it—only that he could sense the cracks and chinks and widen them by sliding his mind into them, like a wedge entering wood.  
  
For a long moment, Harry struggled against him. Draco felt some sweat of his own break out, and his vision of Harry blurred. The pressure against his Legilimency grew until he felt he would have to pull out.  
  
But that would only frustrate Harry, who had insisted before the session started that he needed to have Draco go harder on him if he was going to survive his next battle with the Dark Lord.  
  
So Draco bore down, and, as he knew had to happen when he was so much better at this than Harry, the crack weakened and let him through.  
  
He was whirling along on a flood of memories and information and ideas before he managed to master himself and pull back. His Legilimency was still less instinctive than his Occlumency, because he hadn’t practiced as much. He was supposed to shield himself, Snape had told him sternly, not try to read people’s minds.   
  
But right now he had the chance to read Harry’s, and so he did his best to locate and isolate one memory. Preferably one of Harry and him together. It was _possible_ that if Harry saw them from the outside, he would realize the same thing that was always clanging like a bell in the back of Draco’s head now.  
  
 _Possible. But not likely._  
  
Still, Draco wanted to try it anyway, and so he reached out and snared one memory from the flood as delicately as possible.  
  
He was not prepared for what came from it.  
  
Something obscure and writhing coiled around him like water-weed, and Draco cried out in more than surprise when he felt the pressure on his mind. Something sliding and smooth and subtle, something as powerful and deadly as a snake.  
  
Legilimency more assured, and many times stronger, than his own.  
  
Draco stumbled backwards, wondering, in a panic, if Harry had some instinctive defenses in his mind that would repel Draco and destroy him before he could pull himself free. Sometimes that happened, Professor Snape had told him, but not often, any more than some wizards and witches were allergic to certain kinds of spells. But Draco should still have been _prepared_ , he _always_ ought to be prepared for the strange and extraordinary to happen with Harry, and still he hadn’t considered it—  
  
Then the thing winding around him snapped tight and laughed at him, and Draco knew, for sure and certain, that it was not and could not be Harry.  
  
Harry did not possess that cold laughter, that arrogance that crushed down on Draco then like an avalanche and made him aware how much the possessor of the voice despised him. His panic redoubled, and he _yanked_ himself free with a power that Professor Snape and Lucius both would have been proud of.  
  
Then he opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of their practice room, and Harry was striding towards him, leveling his wand at a Draco with reflexes that spoke of years of experience.  
  
His eyes were red, his pupils vertical. All around him flowed a palpable aura of power that Draco, better than anyone after working so closely with Harry, knew Harry did not have.  
  
Draco’s instincts saved him then. He might have frozen, and he probably would have died. But he flung himself sideways, and the curse that flew from Harry’s wand—a sizzling, hissing one that made the floor bubble and boil—just missed him.  
  
The cold laughter spilled from Harry’s lips. Draco shuddered. It was much worse aloud. He knew that Harry had heard it more than once, and he wondered that Harry was sane after it.  
  
“You,” whispered the Dark Lord’s voice, Harry’s head swaying from side to side as if it were the head of a cobra. “Lucius’s traitorous son. The one he was so proud of, the one he was sure would kneel to me someday. Are you, I wonder, actually Potter’s friend? Or are you pretending to be, so that you can serve your father? But no,” the voice continued, contemplative, slow, terrifying. “You have shown too much of yourself to Potter here. Typically, he notices almost nothing of it, but I do. I can use his eyes; I need not use his brain.”  
  
Draco knew he was outmatched. He couldn’t lie to the Dark Lord, not with his Legilimency and with how much he might have seen—which was everything, if he’d really been living in Harry’s mind for months. And he couldn’t win in a battle against him. It seemed like the Dark Lord had all his knowledge and his magic with him, rather than being limited by Harry’s mind and body.  
  
On the other hand, he didn’t think he would get out of the door if he tried to run.  
  
He committed himself in a moment, as Professor Snape had said he would have to sometimes, and swished his wand in a spell that Snape had believed he wasn’t ready to perform. “ _Color mortis_ ,” he whispered, so softly that he didn’t think the Dark Lord could hear him. At least, he would have to _hope_ that the Dark Lord couldn’t hear him. Draco cast the spell during the last part of his bragging little speech, though, so he didn’t think so.  
  
The spell spread soundlessly, invisibly, over him, but Draco could _feel_ it passing, the tingle like a thousand cold spiders’ legs running up his skin. He shuddered, and then the Dark Lord turned his wand on him. Draco stood tall and faced it, trying to wear a haughty expression, the way that the Dark Lord would expect Lucius’s son to. He was breathing so fast that he swayed on his feet, but he knew he was brave, he knew he was strong, and this was for Harry’s sake.  
  
He could only pray that the Dark Lord wouldn’t cast the Killing Curse, because this spell wasn’t a block to the Killing Curse; nothing was.   
  
“ _Crucio_!” the Dark Lord said, and Draco had a moment to be grateful for the rigidity of his mind and his lack of imagination before the pain spread over his body.  
  
It lasted only a moment. Then _Color mortis_ , the Feigned Death Spell, went into motion and made him slump, his heartbeat fading below detection levels in a moment, so it would look as if a heart attack had killed him. Draco’s eyes rolled back, his breath stopped on the surface but continued, suspended, in the lowest part of his lungs, and his body went slack and unresponsive.  
  
He heard the Dark Lord make a hiss of surprise. Then he stepped towards Draco and jabbed the wand at his cheek, rolling his head to the side. Draco went with it, because he had no choice, and changed his prayer—this time, that the Dark Lord wouldn’t decide to jab the wand through his eye as a way of making sure he was _truly_ dead. The _Color mortis_ would sustain his silence and stillness even through that, but it wouldn’t lessen the pain.  
  
“I will have to tell Lucius,” the Dark Lord said, with a little laugh, and then swept out of the room.  
  
Draco forced himself to lie still and count to a hundred. It was the second hardest thing he had ever done in his life. The hardest was forcing himself to his feet and then turning in the direction of the dungeons and Snape’s private rooms.   
  
He wanted to go after Harry so badly that his body felt tugged towards Harry’s side by invisible reins, but if he did, he would be in the same predicament he’d just got out of. Better to fetch Professor Snape, as the only one in the school who would believe Draco immediately and who might know what to do in the case of possession.   
  
*  
  
Harry’s brain was screaming and scrabbling like a mouse in a glass cage, and he couldn’t stop it.  
  
He couldn’t stop anything. He still felt the motions of his own limbs, the weight of the wand in his hand, the brush of cloth and air against his skin as his body climbed the stairs, but he didn’t _control_ any of it. His head turned and his eyes focused on stones hung with what looked like red tapestries—the haze of red that seemed to follow Voldemort everywhere—but it wasn’t what he wanted to look at, and the thoughts that rushed through his head weren’t his own.  
  
And Draco was dead. _Draco was dead_ , for trusting Harry, and trying to help him, even after Harry decided he didn’t trust him and wouldn’t tell him anything he wasn’t forced to.  
  
It hurt so much. He struggled and he ran and he turned and he lashed out and he kept screaming, hoping that the fervor of everything might startle Voldemort into letting go.  
  
But he knew he couldn’t do anything. Voldemort’s strength sat on him like a snake coiled on top of a rat, and he had never been any good at Occlumency.  
  
The bitterness made all the nightmares he’d had so far, and his conviction that he was going to die in the war, seem like nothing. They _had_ been nothing. If he’d worked harder, instead of giving up sometimes because he was so depressed—if he’d stuck with Occlumency when Snape first wanted him to perfect it—if he’d talked to Ginny, who’d been right after all, or told someone about the duel with Sirius where the world turned red—  
  
Everything was lost, now, and Voldemort was laughing at him. And, because he had deliberately shared one of his thoughts with Harry, he knew where they were going.  
  
Sirius was due for a dueling lesson with Harry this evening.  
  
*  
  
This time, Severus knew that something was wrong not due to a ward or Draco bursting into his office, but because his Mark had begun to burn just as he was contemplating retiring to bed. He laid down his ladle instead of dropping it this time, and sent a moment regarding his arm. His mind had already acted to put his fear into suspension and fill itself with clarity, the way it had during the battles that Severus actually fought against the Order of the Phoenix, before he changed sides.   
  
_The Dark Lord is in the castle._  
  
And then someone was knocking frantically at the door to his private rooms. Severus moved towards the door, analyzing as he went. (Analysis was a way to keep himself from exploding with fear). Only Slytherins knew where the door to his private rooms lay; that was not knowledge he had ever seen necessary to trust to Harry, since they always met at his office or in the training room anyway. And if the Dark Lord was in the castle, he was probably trying to strike at Harry. And there was only one Slytherin who would be that intimately concerned in Harry’s problems.  
  
So Severus opened the door without surprise, which itself lessened the dread, and nodded to Draco. “I need to know what has happened,” he said, before the boy could even open his mouth, “and I need to know where he has gone.”  
  
“I don’t know the second,” Draco said. His breathing had slowed down a bit, Severus noted with approval, retreating from hyperventilation. He was used to listening to questions from someone else in that kind of calm, dry voice. “But the Dark Lord’s possessed him. He must have been in Harry’s mind a long time. I stirred him up during the Occlumency lesson, and—” He swallowed. “He must have been there a long time, to be that strong,” he repeated, and shook his head, turning away.  
  
Severus seized his shoulder. He did not have the time to coddle Draco, and that meant he could not allow him to sink into despair. “Did he affect your mind in any way?”  
  
“I don’t think so.” Draco shivered. “He drove me out of Harry’s mind, but I was trying to escape anyway. And then he tried to torture me with Crucio, but I’d cast Feigned Death and he thought I was dead. I _think_ he’s gone upstairs, but I don’t know where.”  
  
It did not take Severus long to make a guess. The Dark Lord would not have revealed himself, even if Draco had probed at him, unless he was ready to make a move. And, other than Draco and perhaps the Gryffindors—whom Potter had spent less time with this year than usual—there was only one person whose loss would cause Harry deep and personal pain instead of the impersonal grief that the boy seemed ready to take on his shoulders every time someone died.  
  
“Up” could mean Gryffindor Tower. But “up” was also likely to mean the Room of Requirement, and if the Dark Lord had been around long enough to acquire some of Potter’s memories and see through his eyes, he must also realize that striking at Black now was an easier chance, before the news had had time to spread. Harry’s friends would be nodding off in their beds soon. They could be finished with ease once he had taken care of Black.  
  
 _And if he knows that much, it is likely that my own life is forfeit._  
  
Severus felt his heart beating strongly in his ears as he set off, for the second time, to rescue Sirius Black. It was louder than the footsteps of Draco behind him, whom Severus knew would not stay put no matter what he told him, and whose trust he did not fancy losing by casting a binding spell. And it was louder than the silent plea that he had guessed correctly and was not leaving the Gryffindor children to suffer.  
  
 _He knows. He knows.  
  
One way or another, this is an end to my spying._   
  
An end to suspension, an end to uncertainties…  
  
Severus felt his lips curl in a somewhat desperate smile. Strange as this circumstance was, there were ways that he thought he could regard it with relief.  
  
*  
  
The door to the Room of Requirement opened. Inside was the plain dueling chamber that Harry and Sirius always used, and Harry when he was training with the Army of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff students. Of course it was, Harry thought, nearly crazed with despair. Voldemort had access to all his thoughts. He would know what the room should look like and how to summon it into being.  
  
Voldemort did pause as the door opened, and Harry caught the edge of a thought that sounded something like _insecure_ and _tiara_. But Harry caught no more than that, because Sirius was waiting, smiling, in the middle of the floor, and he needed to act _now_ , with Draco’s weight in his mind like a stone, face pale-cold, if he didn’t want Sirius to end up like Draco had.  
  
He lunged, throwing all his weight against Voldemort’s mind, hoping against hope that the prophecy—which Voldemort had to know, too, if he’d been listening to Harry’s thoughts—would take hold somehow, and ensure that he could defeat the bastard. He could die, and that was all right, that was what he’d been preparing for all along, just let him take Voldemort with him, all he asked, all he wanted—  
  
And Voldemort crushed him down without even moving, without shifting. He laughed at Harry, and Harry screamed back, but his hope was gone, and nearly his mind. Voldemort did fling one coil over him, so that he had even less freedom of movement than he’d had up to that point, and then moved his lips in a smile at Sirius.  
  
“Are you all right, Harry?” Sirius cocked his head to the side, his smile fading as he examined Harry with concern. “Something funny about your eyes…”  
  
“I woke up with a fever this morning,” Voldemort said, and his voice was pitch-perfect, sheepish and apologetic for worrying Sirius, but of course it would be, why _wouldn’t_ it be, it was _Harry’s_ voice, and why couldn’t Harry _do_ anything? “And it turned my eyes this color for some reason.” He laughed. “A burst blood vessel, maybe. But I won’t let it stop the duel! I have to know how to defeat him.”  
  
And he raised his wand.   
  
Sirius came forwards, laughing, to meet it, not knowing what would happen.  
  
“ _Distorqueo_!”  
  
*  
  
Draco raced after Professor Snape to the stairs, but when they got up them, he was ahead. He didn’t know how it happened. He didn’t plan it. What mattered was that they had to get there, and he knew where it was, because he’d waited outside the room more than once when Harry put an Occlumency lesson after the dueling lesson.  
  
Professor Snape shouted for him to stop. Draco shut his ears and ran madly. He was breathing horribly by the time he got to the last set of stairs, but Quidditch had been good for something this year after all, although it hadn’t let him win the game against Harry; it kept him going long past the point where he would have been ready to drop if he wasn’t in better shape. And then he saw the door ahead, and he saw it was slightly ajar, and he wanted to whoop and shout and laugh, because the Dark Lord hadn’t taken the time to shut and ward it, but he didn’t have the time, and Professor Snape was _still_ shouting for him to stop, and he might try to bind Draco at any moment.  
  
Draco threw out his hand and pushed the door open.  
  
And he saw Sirius Black twisting and hunching like an old tree under the Deforming Curse that the Dark Lord had cast at him, and his heart burned hot, and he aimed his wand and, because he couldn’t cast a spell that would hurt Harry if his life depended on it, he spoke another savage spell that came to mind instead.   
  
“ _Dehisco_!”  
  
*  
  
Harry had never known what suffering was until he saw the torture curse Voldemort was using cramp Sirius’s spine, turn his limbs weak and shaky, and start sucking the bones out of his chest. Sirius was screaming. Harry kept trying to go to him again and again. Voldemort held him down. He laughed at him.  
  
Harry thought he could feel his mind bending, just like Sirius’s body, under the pressure. He almost welcomed it. If he was going to die, if he was going to be the one responsible for killing his godfather or hurting him beyond belief, then maybe it was for the best anyway—  
  
“ _Dehisco_!” came the yell from behind him, in Draco’s angry, beloved voice.  
  
 _Beloved_? Harry had time to think, the thought whirling past him like an arrow and spinning him around.  
  
And then Draco’s curse struck and Harry’s wand split down the middle, forked into two halves that leaped away from each other as if hit by a thunderbolt. The phoenix feather inside puffed into a sad cascade of golden flecks and drifted towards the ground, settling like snow on the useless holly wood.  
  
Sirius fell over, in what looked like unconsciousness, and which made Harry cry with relief.  
  
Voldemort screamed like an angry Veela and turned around to confront Draco— _alive, alive, oh my God, Draco_ —and Professor Snape, behind him. He must have seen at once that they were both armed and he wasn’t. Harry felt him tense, and the air around him briefly turned cold. He thought Voldemort was trying to summon his own magic through Harry’s body, but either the distance was too great or he wasn’t as good at wandless magic as Harry had always thought he was, after all.  
  
He hissed angrily, either way, and then he closed his eyes.  
  
And Harry felt pain travel through him beside which Umbridge’s Cruciatus was nothing, and he realized Voldemort did in fact have a victim in reach that he could still hurt.  
  
*  
  
Severus stepped forwards. Part of him was in shock, but far more was soaring with stunned pride. _Draco, to think of something like that, rather than a spell that would hurt Harry’s body instead of his wand—  
  
Oh, Draco. You are my favorite student for a reason. _  
  
But then those red, shining eyes closed, and Harry’s body began to shudder, and Severus understood that Draco’s not casting a torture spell might have been of small avail, since the Dark Lord could destroy Harry’s mind without moving.  
  
And now it was his turn.  
  
Legilimency against an unwilling mind was difficult, which was one reason Severus had always kept his abilities very quiet, so that his students wouldn’t start consciously resisting him. And Legilimency with the eyes shut was more difficult still; Severus usually preferred to wait until someone was looking him directly in the face even when he knew a person well. And this was the Dark Lord, whose abilities as a Legilimens were beyond compare, and who knew, now, that Severus had been deceiving him.  
  
But still, this was the reason he had come here. Draco had done his part.   
  
Now it was up to Severus to do his.  
  
He never hesitated. He cast “ _Legilimens_ ” aloud, which was not something he ordinarily needed to do, but he was not about to waste any power at the moment on nonverbal spells. And it wasn’t as if the Dark Lord didn’t realize exactly what he was going to do.   
  
He leaped, and passed inside, using his mind like a battering ram, knocking at the shields and the traps that immediately sprang up to oppose him.   
  
Only later, much later, did he realize this was the first action he had taken in years that was not a matter of either routine or atonement.  
  
*  
  
Draco wanted to do something, especially when Harry began to shudder as if someone was hitting him with lightning curses. But he had heard Professor Snape speak, and he knew that there was nothing he could do right now. He was a fairly good Occlumens, but nothing like on Snape’s level.  
  
No, as useless as it made him feel, he had to—wait.  
  
Draco sighed and let himself drop onto his heels. And then a groan echoed his sigh, and he looked around in surprise.  
  
Sirius Black lay hunched and twisted on the floor, his head bent to the side, his eyes filled with terror.  
  
There was something Draco could do, after all, and so he moved towards his cousin.  
  
*  
  
Harry knew he was shredding apart, in a process that not all the nightmares had managed, or even seeing Draco die—as he thought—or seeing the pain inflicted on Sirius. Voldemort had only done that to torture him. This time, he meant to kill.  
  
He tore and tore and tore, and bits of Harry’s thoughts and memories and information spun away and were gone. And all the time, Voldemort kept up a steady chant of what he was destroying.   
  
Wingardium Leviosa. _The way that your friend Ron laughs. How your cousin tortured you. The moment when you realized your aunt would never love you, no matter what you did for her. The Body-Binding Spell. Your friend Hermione’s middle name. Your favorite foods. It will all go, Potter, it will all go, and I will annihilate you. You will become less than a name on the wind, less than a ghost bemoaning his unfair treatment. You are gone, and you will pay for defying me!_  
  
The one thing Harry knew how to do best, thanks to the training he’d received—from Snape, from Sirius, from Draco, from the Dursleys, from Seamus, from Umbridge—was how to endure pain. So he did what he could to cling to the core of his slowly diminishing sanity, and last to the end. If Voldemort wanted him to go, then the only victory Harry could steal from him was to stay as long as possible.  
  
And then—  
  
A slender beam of light, creeping into Harry’s mind the way that a line of light used to shine under the door of the cupboard. A rope ladder lowered to him.   
  
_You must trust me_. Snape’s voice was all around him then, beating in his ears like wind or wings, stronger than Voldemort’s horrifying chant. _I can strengthen you. This is still your mind. You have the advantage here, and you can fight him. But you must trust me._  
  
Harry hesitated, agonized, remembering unfair moments in Potions class, pain that Snape as well as Voldemort had caused him—  
  
And then he ran into the first holes in his memories, and he understood that perhaps he would never again know some of what Snape had done to him.  
  
He wanted to laugh. He wanted to weep. He wanted to dance around in a circle and point out to Voldemort, who was now screaming at Snape and attacking him with rush after rush of power, that his own destruction had been the thing that caused Harry to trust Snape.  
  
That, and some of the memories of the training sessions, and of the stories that Snape had told him.  
  
 _Yes_ , Harry said, and reached out to clasp Snape’s hand.  
  
*  
  
Severus had not _expected_ the maelstrom, because to expect something, one had to have a vague idea of what it was like, and Severus had never before been in the middle of a forest fire that was also a rockfall and an avalanche, lit with vivid flashes of green and purple lightning that would kill him if they landed.   
  
But he fought his way through, along the tattered trails of thought and the rebounding rocks and the leaping water, and he felt Harry’s mind—familiar from their aborted Occlumency lessons—pressing up against his, and he reached out and offered help.  
  
And Harry said, _Yes_ , and Severus felt something shift around them, something that was not merely the change in Harry’s mind that the permission signaled.   
  
But for the moment, that change was by far the most important one. Severus swept his power forwards like a pair of wings and, at the moment when the Dark Lord intensified his assault most and stood the most chance of hurting him, he poured his power and his knowledge into Harry, a possession of his own in some ways.  
  
But more than that. A lending. A borrowing. Harry suddenly knew as much about Occlumency and Legilimency as Severus did, and so he had the knowledge to access the native strength of his mind.  
  
More than that, because this was not a possession but a permission, Severus could hide himself entirely in Harry’s mind if he required. He moved his knowledge, but also _himself_ , and vanished from in front of the Dark Lord, whose assault rained and hammered on empty ground.   
  
Harry-Severus expanded himself downwards, sideways, forwards, up. He went everywhere the Dark Lord was not, and he grabbed things. He-they drew it in, that knowledge of his mind that remained, the memories that were years old and layered and not so easy as all that to be destroyed, the conviction of his death, the love of Sirius, the hatred of the horrid Muggles who had abused him, and together he-they drove it and built it and himself-themselves, and they shot up like a black building, and hit Voldemort-the Dark Lord in a single burst of indescribable power, as all Harry-Severus convulsed in a moment of _rejection_.  
  
The Dark Lord-Voldemort had managed to build up so much power only because he’d hidden for so many months in the back of Harry’s mind—and his nightmares, as they both understood at the same moment, because Harry had the memories of those dreams and Severus recognized them as a sign of incipient possession. And now that mind was aware of him, and _angry_.  
  
Ancient rage came boiling up, all the anger that Harry had at Finnigan and Umbridge and the Dursleys and felt he had to suppress. And it joined to the anger that Severus felt against James Potter and against Dumbledore, and with his hatred of the Dark Lord for the loss of Lily, and hit Voldemort like a shuttlecock, knocking him far, far away, out of Harry-Severus.  
  
His diminishing cry haunted them for long moments, and then they broke apart, fell apart, and Severus swam to the surface of Harry’s mind, and opened his eyes to find Harry flinging himself into his arms.   
  
*  
  
Draco gasped as Professor Snape’s eyes opened. He’d been crouched beside Black, trying to murmur the most soothing words he could, and watching both Snape and Harry, who stood motionless. And then Snape’s eyes were _open_ , and Harry jumped towards him and clutched his robes, sobbing.  
  
Snape dropped to his knees—not, Draco thought, because he wanted to accommodate Harry but because he didn’t have the strength to stand up any longer—and caught him. He held him for a length of time that made Draco feel uncomfortably jealous.   
  
“Well?” Draco demanded after a minute, unable to believe that no one had _said_ anything. “Is he all right?”  
  
Snape lifted his head. The look in his eyes was pure fire, and Draco had to shiver and fight the temptation to take a step backwards.  
  
“He is far from all right,” Snape said in measured tones. “But the Dark Lord is gone. And from now on, things will be _different_. There will be—arrangements made, for healing and to ease the pain that should have been eased long since, by Dumbledore.” His hand rose and settled on Harry’s shoulder in a gesture that Draco recognized, having received it himself. Support. Possessiveness. Gladness.  
  
And then Draco couldn’t stand it, and had to practically drag Black over to them so he could embrace as much of them as possible.


	20. Arrangements

  
“I don’t actually remember—all that much of the battle.”  
  
Harry’s confession was made in a soft, troubled voice, whilst he and Draco sat in the hospital wing next to Black’s bed. Black had gone to sleep with an exhausted whimper the moment Madam Pomfrey aimed her wand at him. She had declared that he was in too much pain to keep awake when Draco questioned her; Professor Snape had always taught him that someone who was taking healing potions of any kind should be awake when ingesting them.  
  
Draco let Harry lean his head on his shoulder, and stroked his hair. His other arm was curled around Harry’s shoulders. Harry let one hand dangle limply in his lap, but his left arm embraced Draco’s waist so furiously that Draco knew he would probably have bruises tomorrow. He didn’t care. He was happy, despite everything, and it took only a few gestures from Harry to make him so.  
  
“And I think I’ve lost other memories, too.” Harry raised his head, glanced briefly at Black, and then glanced away as if he found it difficult to look at him. Draco didn’t blame him. Madam Pomfrey had said that Black would probably escape with a deformed spine and one twisted hand, and that he should count himself lucky if he did. “I can’t remember some of my training sessions with Sirius. Some parts of my childhood. Some times I shared with Ron and Hermione.” He took a deep breath and shivered. “Some of the time I spent with you.” The voice in which he whispered those words was tiny.  
  
“I don’t care,” Draco said, and pulled Harry closer to him still. He wondered if an acute observer, like his father, would be able to tell how much Draco loved Harry. He decided he didn’t care. No one was here except them, Black, and Madam Pomfrey, and she had barred the doors so that no one else could come in. Anyone with an emergency could contact her through the Floo, she’d said shortly. Professor Snape was talking with Headmaster Dumbledore, and Draco privately didn’t expect him back for hours yet. “I’ll tell you all about those times, and I can put memories in a Pensieve for you.”  
  
Harry gave him an exhausted smile. Still, Draco thought his face looked better than it had looked all year. He was carrying less weight, now, and it seemed that the worst had happened that could happen.  
  
Draco did have to remind himself that wasn’t true. The Dark Lord knew about his friendship with Harry, now, and he would be sure to tell Lucius. Draco couldn’t go home. He didn’t know what would happen between him and his parents.  
  
But he and Harry and Professor Snape and Black were all alive, and Snape had said, after peering into Harry’s mind with Legilimency, that he stood a chance of recovery as long as he worked for it. They would still have to strive to close the connection in the curse scar, but they could do that, just like they could help Harry recover his memories.  
  
Draco felt capable of doing anything, with Harry by his side.  
  
“Do you know how long the Dark Lord was in your head?” Draco asked. It was something he wanted to know, but more because he wanted to know everything about Harry than because he was worried. Right now, he felt too drained and contented to worry, and there was Harry’s hair to stroke.  
  
Harry sighed, but didn’t tense up. “No. I was having dreams for months, though. Nightmares that were vivid and got more vivid all the time. Mostly with you dying.” His mouth became tight for a moment. Still his shoulders under Draco’s arm were relaxed. “I think he must have crept in that way, and the dreams were a way of tightening his possession.” He looked up at Draco, his eyes anxious. “But he knows all about you now.”  
  
“And _you_ ,” said Draco, because he wasn’t about to let Harry begin that routine of declaring himself in less danger again, “and Professor Snape. So things will have to change. That’s why Snape went to talk to Dumbledore.”  
  
Harry made a muffled noise of contempt under his breath. Draco cocked his head. “What? Do you really think that Professor Snape won’t fight for you to spend the summer away from your horrible relatives?”  
  
“I think he’ll fight,” Harry said shortly. “I don’t think Dumbledore will agree.”  
  
“But he has to know that you probably wouldn’t survive another summer with them.” Draco shook his head, his indignation growing. “Why would he send you there in the first place? Why would he tell you about the prophecy and then send you back there and make you try and bear it alone?”  
  
“I didn’t tell him all the details,” Harry said. “I didn’t even tell _you_ all the details. He might not know how bad it got.”  
  
“Don’t defend him.” Draco tapped one leg emphatically against the bed they sat on; he would have slapped down one hand, but he didn’t want to let go of Harry. “He _suspected_ , and that’s enough. And then Professor Snape tried to tell him earlier in the year, and he didn’t listen.”  
  
“I know.” Harry rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t really want to defend him. I reckon—I feel just done with fighting right now, you know? All carved out. I’ll have to rest a while before I can start again. And I don’t know if I have the strength to sit around blaming and accusing Dumbledore.”  
  
Draco nodded, his decision as to whether he was going to tell Harry he loved him made. Harry would look on that as additional stress right now. Draco didn’t want it to be stress; he wanted it to be a gift. So he would wait.  
  
And that would let _him_ become a little more used to it, too.  
  
“Well, then,” he said. “Trust Professor Snape to fight your battles for you, right now.”  
  
Harry made a face. “Do you know how strange that sounds? If you’d asked me what one sentence I wouldn’t ever be saying two days ago, that would be my first choice.”  
  
“You mean your last,” Draco corrected. “Because the other sentences you could think of would be more likely.”  
  
Harry elbowed him in the ribs. Draco pretended to be much more hurt than he really was, mostly because he was so glad to see a smile on Harry’s face again.  
  
*  
  
When Severus stepped into Dumbledore’s office, he found him waiting with his hands clasped behind his back. But Severus could read the old man’s expressions better than anyone else alive, and he knew that he was not nearly as calm as he pretended to be.   
  
“The Dark Lord was in the school,” said Severus, because he saw no use in being gentle about it. _Perhaps, if someone had been blunt years ago, some of Harry’s pain and mine could have been avoided_. “He possessed Harry and used him as a weapon against Draco and against—his godfather.” Strange how those words came out less bitterly than speaking either of Black’s names would have. “He was wounded mentally in the process of fighting off the Dark Lord’s possession and has probably lost some of his memories. How important they are, I cannot tell without detailed investigation, which of course will have to wait until some of the wounds in his mind have begun to heal.”  
  
Dumbledore closed his eyes and bowed his head. He looked crushed, but Severus was not able to call up much sympathy for his pain. There were others who ached worse.  
  
“And I suppose,” Dumbledore whispered, “that you have come as Harry’s champion, to tell me how things will be.”  
  
“I want explanations,” Severus said. “But I am the one making the arrangements, yes. Harry will not go back to his relatives. They almost starved him to death. And Finnigan marked him far more deeply with the burning of his possessions than you have showed you knew, and Umbridge tortured him over the Christmas holidays, with Cruciatus. I have come for knowledge, and I have come for justice.” He advanced a few steps towards Dumbledore, his hand on the wand in his pocket.  
  
“You will teach Harry Occlumency, so that we may close the connection in his scar?” Dumbledore spoke softly, not looking up.  
  
Severus felt a swell of triumph. For him to teach Harry Occlumency would require continued access to him over the summer, and he knew that Dumbledore would not risk Severus going to the Dursleys’ home, just in case he tried to take revenge on them. “Draco would be the better choice,” he said. “Harry trusts him more, and he is accustomed to thinking of Draco’s mental touch as bringing pleasure instead of pain.” He shuddered a little. Given Draco’s confession the other day, his own wording brought unpleasant images to mind. “But I will feed Draco my knowledge.”  
  
Dumbledore looked up quickly. “It would be too dangerous for young Malfoy to visit him.”  
  
Severus sneered slightly. “Draco has been revealed in any case. The Dark Lord has been spying for months. Harry had the nightmares that are a symptom of possession. We must keep Draco over the summer, and make arrangements for separating him from his parents. The charade of their friendship being hatred is at an end.”  
  
“I have no legal right to take him from his parents—”  
  
Severus drew his wand and took a step forwards. Dumbledore watched the wand with a sad calm that was infuriating, but just now, Severus was thinking more of Harry and Draco’s fate than of his own anger. “You are the head of the Wizengamot,” he said with quiet force. “You can manipulate public opinion better than Rita Skeeter. You _will_ come up with an excuse that will remove Lucius Malfoy’s legal right to Draco. Well-supported testimony of Lucius Malfoy’s Death Eater activities will be enough to do it. I suspect Narcissa Malfoy would support such a move.” He was, in reality, not sure of that at all, but he knew how to persuade her so that she _would_ do it. “And Draco will be sixteen in a few days. Not yet of age, but old enough to make a court case as to why he should be spared his father’s tender care for the last year of his childhood.”  
  
Dumbledore’s face was pale, his gaze cold and straight. “It would deprive us of popular support at a moment when we most need it, with the Ministry consolidating power,” he said.  
  
“They are consolidating power because you have not seen fit to oppose them.” Severus knew a trick to make his voice vibrate louder than anything else in the room, a useful trick when one was teaching students who thought that because they sat in the back of the class, the professor couldn’t hear them talking. His voice made the delicate silver instruments on the shelves and tables and Dumbledore’s desk vibrate. “Dumbledore, you have a reputation from killing Grindelwald that is robust for all that it is fifty years old. You have a vast web of contacts who would die for you if you asked them to. You are the most powerful wizard in Britain, nearly an equal with the Dark Lord himself. _You_ can take charge of this war. Why you have been leaving it up to Fudge and a fifteen-year-old boy, I have no idea.”  
  
Dumbledore took a deep, pained breath. “Because the last time I had too much responsibility,” he whispered, “it ended so very dreadfully. With the death of my sister, who depended on me, and the permanent alienation of my brother. I defeated Grindelwald not because I wanted to become a hero but because he had wounded me personally. He was my mistake to clean up. But since then, I have tried as best I can to avoid having and using too much power.”  
  
Severus stared at him in silence for long moments. Then he hissed like a steam kettle, and didn’t care that it caused Dumbledore to look at him in pain and surprise. He had not known this reason was hiding behind the doddering fool’s lack of action, but he ought to have guessed. _Gryffindors. They make one mistake and think they should pay for it the rest of their lives._  
  
He pushed aside the feeling of familiarity to that description.  
  
“You _have_ had power since then,” he said harshly. “If you really didn’t want it, then you would have found some way not to accept the leadership of the Wizengamot. You wouldn’t have become a professor at Hogwarts, and you wouldn’t have become Headmaster when they offered you the chance. You _certainly_ wouldn’t have led the Order of the Phoenix in the first war. That was too much like your conflict with Grindelwald. You ought to have feared any situation that reminded you of your horrible mistake most of all. Yet you took it. So do not tell me, _Albus_ , that you are a reluctant hero who emerges from his lonely house to do what he must only when called. You have been _active_ in the world, not passive. Except in the matter of Harry Potter. I want to know why. I want to know what makes him so different from all the rest.”  
  
Severus could feel disgust welling inside him as he spoke the words—and pity. For so many years, he had envied the attention that Harry Potter received from Albus Dumbledore, because he had been sure that Dumbledore held the key to his own redemption. Now he wondered if that attention ought to be considered bane instead of blessing. Perhaps Dumbledore had paid so much attention to Harry that he had seen the evil consequences of interference, and so had refused to interfere even when he _should_.  
  
“I have always striven to use my power for the good of others, and not their hurt,” Dumbledore began.  
  
“You have failed,” said Severus coolly, and was pleased beyond words to see that the words gave Dumbledore pause.   
  
“I have striven, nonetheless,” said Dumbledore.  
  
“And still you failed.” Severus leaned forwards. “Slytherins are wiser than Gryffindors, in this respect. The Dark Lord is wiser than you are.” Dumbledore frowned; Severus knew that he hated to hear his wisdom questioned. “We know—he knows—that power is a positive force, not a negative one. What you do with it matters more than what you refrain from doing. Too often, refraining from action is only an excuse to sit back, and, when evil happens in spite of you, to claim that at least you are not at fault. Has that been your besetting sin, Dumbledore? Have you cared more about what others think of you than what happens to them?”  
  
“Severus—”  
  
“I have done evil to Harry in the past,” Severus continued. “But at least I have endeavored to make it up this year. I would rather have my clumsy efforts in mind when I think of what has happened to him than a perfect, spotless _impotence_. And now I have saved his life and perhaps his sanity. _Tell me why you did not_.”  
  
And Dumbledore yielded. His eyes closed, and he staggered backwards, his hand clasped on the chair next to him.   
  
“He was a child,” he whispered. “An infant. So small. Much smaller than the children who come to Hogwarts, who have had eleven years of being molded in their own families, and who are unlikely to be hurt by me because of their sheer numbers—and because so few of them suffer a crisis in which I can aid them in any way. I couldn’t chance taking him in and rearing him. He was too much like Ariana. And if someone associated with Hogwarts had adopted him, there was the chance I would have seen him on a regular basis, and hurt him then. So I left him with a family who, whilst they might hurt him, could not damage him with magic.”  
  
Severus folded his arms and stared at Dumbledore. He half-wished to leave, but the desire to hear this strange tale out to the end kept him still.  
  
“And when he came to the school—” Dumbledore shuddered and opened his eyes. “The first time he stepped into the Great Hall and stood waiting for his Sorting, I read his mind, Severus. And I discovered that Voldemort had left a shard of soul within him, and that he is a Horcrux. Voldemort made him one accidentally on the night that Harry crumbled his first body and drove his spirit away. He must die for Voldemort to be finally vanquished. Oh, Tom made other Horcruxes as well, like the diary that Harry has already stabbed. But this is one of them. Harry is one of them.” Dumbledore was whispering by the time he came to the end of his speech. “How could I become too close to him? How could I attempt too hard to save him? Every time I saw him come near to death, I wondered if that might not be a kinder fate for him. Indeed, I wondered whether it might not be the saving of the world.”  
  
Severus went cold. He closed his eyes and fought his own sickness for long moments.  
  
He did not know why this was such a surprise. He knew that the Dark Lord had long since begun to research Dark Arts and Dark ways of making himself immortal. But then, no one Severus had heard of in either history or legend had made more than one Horcrux.  
  
And yet, there was not a doubt in his mind what he had to do.  
  
“I will seek out some way of handling this,” he said. “In the meantime, Harry will go to an Order safe house for the summer. Not Grimmauld Place,” he added, seeing Dumbledore’s mouth open. “The atmosphere of the place would be wrong for him, with what he has suffered. To a place where he will not have Black’s constant company, or mine, or Draco’s. To a place where he can see other people as much or as little as he chooses, and can eat _whenever he wants_ , and where he can rest and heal. That is what he needs right now.”  
  
“And Draco?” Dumbledore was regarding Severus as if he were a sudden, new, thirteenth use for dragon’s blood.  
  
“He will come with me,” Severus said quietly. “Our personalities are more compatible than mine and Harry’s.”  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. “There are so many things to arrange—”  
  
“And unlike you, I am not afraid of arranging them.” Severus raised an eyebrow at him. “Begin the legal proceedings to remove Draco from the custody of his parents. And do inform Harry’s relatives that he will not be returning to them. I need you for nothing else right now.” He turned and left the office.  
  
He was more than halfway down the moving staircase before the tremors from disgust and sickness had faded, but they did fade. Harry was his priority, not Dumbledore.   
  
He reached the bottom of the staircase and moved off in a rapid stride towards Minerva’s rooms. The moment she saw Severus’s memories of what had happened to Harry under Umbridge’s wand and heard part of his conversation with Dumbledore—what Severus deemed it wise for her to know—then his main difficulty would be in persuading her to leave enough of the toad-like woman for trial.  
  
And he could do this, now. He breathed a few times, inflating his lungs experimentally. He was freer than he had ever been.  
  
He need not fear that Dumbledore would revoke his protection and send Severus to Azkaban, because he understood Gryffindors. And Dumbledore had even more than the usual obsession with honor and keeping his word, as it appeared now.  
  
 _You will have to find someone else to give you redemption._  
  
But as he knocked on the door of Minerva’s bedroom and heard her sleepy response, Severus felt as though that, too, might be manageable.  
  
*  
  
Harry wasn’t looking forwards to this.  
  
But it had to be done, and thinking about the way that Snape and Draco had helped him made it easier. He pushed open the door of the hospital wing and stepped inside.  
  
Ron and Hermione turned around from Sirius’s bed and looked at him. Sirius shuddered a little, but imitated them. Harry sighed. He knew it would be some time before Sirius could separate Voldemort and Harry in his mind.   
  
It didn’t help that he no longer felt as connected to his friends as he had. He seemed to have lost fewer memories of Draco than of them; it was as if Voldemort had thought Harry’s older memories were the dearer ones, and dug them out of his mind first.  
  
 _But that’s in my head just like me being Voldemort is in Sirius’s head_ , he reminded himself firmly, and let the door fall shut behind him as he turned towards the bed again. Hermione was in full scolding mode by then.  
  
“Harry! How could you have let Malfoy help you, and Snape, and not us?” She shook her head at him. “We would have—”  
  
“Because you were asleep,” Harry said, in the sort of blunt voice he hadn’t used all year, “and it happened so fast.”  
  
Hermione fell quiet, gaping a little. Ron frowned, but didn’t say anything. Sirius leaned forwards. “Does this mean that Snape and Malfoy are taking you over?” he demanded.  
  
 _Yes. Let’s get right to the heart of the matter, shall we_? Harry knew that his best friends were probably thinking the same thing at the moment. They still weren’t used to being left out of the adventures that Harry had at the end of the year, though Snape had been included more times than they had.  
  
Harry blinked as he thought about that, but it was in the class of things he could deal with later. His world had become very divided in the last little while, into _things he could deal with later_ and _things that had to be dealt with today._  
  
“I didn’t leave you out on purpose,” he said. “That’s what’s been happening this year, because I didn’t want to talk to anyone about things like the nightmares and I was teaching you, but I wasn’t training with you. So I left you out then, and I’m sorry. But I’m not going to leave _anyone_ out now. That includes you, Sirius, and you, Ron, and you, Hermione.” He thought it was good to say their names; it made them relax a bit. “So I’ll tell Sirius about the abuse—”  
  
“What?” Sirius breathed, looking appalled.  
  
“And I’ll tell you about the prophecy, and what I know about fighting Voldemort.” Harry raked his hand through his hair and started pacing back and forth. He _did_ wish that Draco was here. Bizarrely, there was a faint wish in his mind for Snape. But it was good for him to do this on his own. If Snape was right and he was a mixture of Slytherin and Gryffindor traits, then he had to keep in contact with both sides of his nature. “But I’m going to be friends with Draco and Snape, too.” Another bizarre thing; could anyone in the world say they were friends with Snape? Except Draco, maybe. But Harry wasn’t going to worry about that right now, either. He was trying to make his life simpler, because that was what he needed. “I don’t want you to tell me to leave them out of this.”  
  
“Harry, you don’t know what Snape’s done,” Sirius began.  
  
“I don’t _care_ ,” Harry said. “He saved my life last night, Sirius. And yours. He stopped me from hurting you further.” He turned and looked at his godfather, feeling sorry for him. Sirius would have to get used to a deformed spine and hand, but at the moment, he looked more lost than anything. He wouldn’t want to change his mind about prejudices he’d carried for almost thirty years, Harry knew. “That matters more to me than what he did in the past.”  
  
“But he’s a Death Eater!” Sirius slammed his good hand down on the bed.  
  
“Pretending to be one,” Harry said. “He was a spy, but Voldemort knows about him, now, so he’ll have to stop.” He hadn’t known it would be such a relief to say those words until he said them. “He’s been on the side of the Order all along. And I am going to know about the Order now, Sirius, so stop jumping.”  
  
“And if Malfoy calls me a Mudblood?” Hermione’s eyes were very wide, her face tight.  
  
“Then I’ll ask him to stop,” Harry said. “But I won’t abandon him.”  
  
“He’ll run off and become like that nasty father of his,” Sirius muttered.  
  
It sounded like a last dying effort at protest. That made it easier for Harry to keep from shouting at him. “He won’t,” he said. “He would ask me to fight him and sit on him, if he had a mind to do that. And even then, it would probably be Imperius.”  
  
“I just,” Hermione said, and shook her head. “We’ve felt cut off from you this year, Harry.”  
  
“I know,” Harry said. “That was my fault. I’m sorry.” _Keep going straight ahead, being cutting and strong. You know that was the way Snape fought Dumbledore. Nothing else would have worked_. He could barely believe the arrangements for his summer that were going forwards, either, or that Aurors had arrested Umbridge this morning. “But it doesn’t mean you get to blame Snape or Draco for it.”  
  
“How can we know things will change?” Hermione put one hand on her hip.  
  
“You’ll have to wait and see if they do, I reckon.” Harry stared her down.  
  
Hermione and Sirius both looked as though they wanted to argue about Snape and Malfoy some more, or redirect the conversation to Harry’s own faults, but they couldn’t seem to think of anything to say. Harry felt a moment’s pride in that. It wasn’t often he managed to render Hermione speechless.  
  
Finally, Hermione left, and Ron followed her. He put his hand on Harry’s shoulder as he went, and smiled at him.  
  
“I can live with Snape and Malfoy, mate,” he whispered back. “I ‘m just glad they make you happy.”  
  
He was gone before Harry could reply, or thank him. Harry stared after him in wonder, then shook his head and approached Sirius.  
  
Sirius looked at him with fear he couldn’t hide for a moment. At last he said, “I’ll get over this, because I _want_ to.” He stretched out his arms, and Harry went to him and hugged him.   
  
“It’ll be hard,” he said.  
  
“Everything in life is hard.” Sirius’s twisted hand stroked his hair. Harry thought the feeling odd for a moment, until he remembered that Draco had done the same thing the other day. Sirius’s touch didn’t feel as good as Draco’s, but he knew why. “It wouldn’t be any fun if it wasn’t.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. For the first time in a day, he had time to think about the corrosive guilt. “I should have said something about the nightmares I was having. Snape said they were the first sign of possession.”  
  
“But you didn’t know about that.” Sirius’s stroking hand didn’t falter. “And it’s much easier to forgive you when I love you the way I do, Harry. I might see your face in my dreams for a while, but I _know_ you aren’t You-Know-Who.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Sirius. Maybe, given enough time, he’d be able to forgive himself, too.  
  
*  
  
OWLs were passing in a haze.  
  
But then, Draco had expected that. He hadn’t studied as hard as he would have ordinarily, because he had more important things happening in his life: fooling his father, training with Harry, trying to figure out what his feelings meant. Yes, the last had been resolved, and he wouldn’t have to do the first anymore, but what had happened in the intervening days since those things had changed hadn’t exactly been _restful_.  
  
Besides, he was as prepared in Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts as he was ever going to be, thanks to Professor Snape’s lessons, he had never done poorly in Charms or Transfiguration, he could do competently in Astronomy, and he didn’t care about the other subjects. So he knew he was going to come out all right.  
  
He saw Harry briefly during the exams. They had a moment to smile at each other and not much else. Harry looked haggard and walked with his head bowed, as if his thoughts were heavy. Draco wished he could take him off for a private talk, but that would have to wait for the beginning of the summer. Granger had Harry in a study session most of the time when he wasn’t actually sitting the exams.  
  
At least Draco knew they would _have_ that time during the summer. Professor Snape had called him into his office shortly after the Potions practical finished. Draco came in with his mind buzzing with recipes and his hair actually mussed; there had been a brief moment when he couldn’t remember how to brew the Draught of Peace.  
  
 _Not that that’s much of a surprise, when there’s a war on_ , he mused, and then banished the silly thoughts when he saw the shadowed way Professor Snape regarded him. He stood out of the way so that the professor could cast locking and silencing charms on the door, and leaned on a table to keep from knocking himself over with a yawn.  
  
“Dumbledore has thrown his support behind an attempt to remove you from Lucius’s custody,” said Snape without preamble. “We need to know that you freely consent to this.”  
  
Draco was silent for a moment, but with shock, not because he needed to think. He knew Dumbledore had been doing _something_ as far as regarded Harry’s abuse at the hands of his relatives. He’d never expected the same level of attention.  
  
“Yes,” he said. “I—of course I do!”  
  
Snape smiled thinly, his eyes watchful. “You would live with me,” he said, “because the wards on my house are strong enough to protect us and our personalities are compatible. Is that acceptable?”  
  
“More than,” Draco said. “And my mum could visit if she wished?”  
  
Snape picked up a parchment from his desk without speaking and held it out. Draco unfolded it, his hands shaking as he recognized his mother’s handwriting.  
  
 _Dear Severus:  
  
I knew this was coming from the moment I saw how my son rejected the gifts Lucius tried to offer him and clung to his independence instead. I have done what I can to leave him free to choose. If he had accepted the principles that Lucius offered, I would have nodded in silence, but as it is, I must give you my approval.   
  
I hope that you will occasionally welcome a third person in the house at Spinner’s End.  
  
Narcissa Malfoy._  
  
Draco licked his lips and tried to say something, but in the end every word he might have uttered was too private. So he just shook his head, looked up, and said, “D’you think Father will do anything to her?”  
  
“I doubt it.” Snape looked viciously satisfied, now that he knew Draco’s decision. “I do not believe that he ever knew where her sympathies lay, or that she has served the Dark Lord less than willingly. And she is clever enough to keep her allegiances hidden from him even now.”  
  
Draco nodded, thinking it through. “And I can see Harry sometimes,” he said. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Professor Snape hadn’t said Harry was living with them. “I can help him cope with his knowledge of the possession and the Occlumency and the prophecy—”  
  
“The prophecy,” said Snape flatly.  
  
Draco felt a moment’s start of guilt, but he thought it through, and decided that Harry would probably be telling Snape the truth anyway. Or, well, he _would_ have to; he’d already told Draco that he’d told his friends and there was a lot of shouting. And he would be mad or a fool if he didn’t trust Snape after what Snape had done for him. Draco knew he was neither. “Dumbledore told him about the prophecy concerning him last year, about how he would have to battle the Dark Lord alone,” he said.  
  
Snape closed his eyes and said, “I see,” after long moments. Then he opened them and said, “I am very proud of you for what you did in the battle against the Dark Lord, Draco—the way you survived, and the spells you thought of.”  
  
Draco felt a warm flush of pleasure run over him. Part of him was aware that Snape was distracting him from whatever about the prophecy disturbed him, but he could accept that, especially when Snape came forwards, put his hands on Draco’s shoulders, and stared searchingly into his eyes. He didn’t use Legilimency.  
  
“You will be a fine man,” Snape said softly.  
  
Draco had to look away.  
  
*  
  
Severus lifted his head when Harry entered his private rooms. He came cautiously, looking around as if he thought that Severus would cast a spell to make monsters leap out of the walls at any moment. In his hand was clutched the new wand that Ollivander had been to the school to help him choose. Severus thought the wood was aspen, but he did not know the identity of the core. Harry’s old wand had proved irreparable even with Severus casting the spells; the phoenix feather core had disintegrated and could not hold the wood together, a much more serious defect than a simple break.  
  
Harry’s eyes were haunted. Now that he knew how much they had to be haunted with, Severus made an effort to keep his voice softer as he said, “I have several things to tell you. You know about the arrangements for the summer.”  
  
“Draco mentioned them.” Harry’s voice was still wary, which made Severus stifle a sigh. Harry took a step back that let him keep his shoulders turned to the wall and gave him a sight of the open door. “So, where is this place I’m going to be staying?”  
  
“In a place called Copsham Cottage,” said Severus. “Named for a Muggle place that I believe the Headmaster was very fond of, once.” Harry’s face darkened with distaste at the mention of Dumbledore, which did not give Severus confidence. But he would have to mention Dumbledore’s name more than once in this conversation, so he pushed on. “You will have me and Draco to visit you whenever you like, and more than one adult member of the Order will stay with you.”  
  
“Sirius?” Harry’s face lit up, but there were shadows in the back of his smile, and Severus knew why, none better. He stifled, in turn, the jealousy that immediately rose when Harry asked about Black and nodded.  
  
“Or Lupin, or one of the adult Weasleys, or others,” he said. “This is an arrangement that Dumbledore would have made long since if he had thought about the matter as he should have done.”  
  
“Why didn’t he?” Harry asked, and suddenly there was a lash of fury in his voice and his green eyes shone the way Lily’s had done when she was confronting Severus over turning to the Dark Arts. “Why didn’t he ever _care_? Why did you have to force him to care?”  
  
“He was worried about hurting you, because another child in his care had died,” said Severus. “And he was afraid of you.” He gestured to the scar on the boy’s forehead and spoke the words that were only less hard than the words he was soon to speak. “You carry a part of the Dark Lord’s soul inside you.”  
  
Harry froze. “What?” he whispered.  
  
“He was trying to become immortal,” said Severus. He spoke as stiffly and neutrally as he could now, and resisted the impulse to hurry through it. “He divided his soul into pieces. Horcruxes, they were called. The diary that you destroyed in your second year was one. And his soul split again when you destroyed his body. Perhaps, as his spirit flew, it broke then. It would have been in a tattered state.” It was the best explanation Severus could come up with, at least. “You have a shard of his soul inside you. He cannot die as long as you are alive.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes, and said nothing. Severus did not know how to read his silence, and he knew that the next words he spoke might destroy his ability, his right, to do so forever. But Harry had to know.  
  
“I have recently been informed that you know the prophecy.” _Let him think Dumbledore told me. He does not need to know that Draco blurted it out_. “You should know that the Dark Lord already knew part of it before he hid in your head. I was the spy who overheard it and carried the news to him. I was the one who sent your parents into hiding and—killed them, indirectly.”  
  
Harry’s breathing grew very fast for a moment, but he opened his eyes with a perfect, fragile glaze of calm stretched across them. “Thank you,” he said. “May I be excused, please?”  
  
In his voice, Severus could hear the echoes of a thousand times when he had asked the Muggles the same thing. He would have to do something about the Muggles, but for the moment, he had to do something about the evil he had done.   
  
“I would give anything to undo it,” he said, and he did not understand why his throat was so thick and his own breathing came fast. “I begged him to spare—her. It did not happen, but—I begged him to do it.”  
  
Harry nodded. “Knowing that helps.”  
  
He had not changed his expression or his tone a hair. “Harry,” Severus said, and then discovered that the hardest words of his life were, after all, yet to come. He had blurted out the facts as fast as he could, and now, seeing the effect they’d had on Harry, he was appalled. “I hope—that is, I will not come near you for the rest of the summer if you do not wish to see me, but I will still be training Draco, who will be training you in Occlumency. And—I wish to see you.”  
  
“I know that.” Harry’s eyes were very far away, and Severus had not a clue what he was thinking. “And I reckon I have to get used to it. I have to get used to the fear in Sirius’s eyes when he looks at me. I have to get used to knowing that Voldemort used my body to curse Draco with the Cruciatus. I have to get used to mediating between Ron and Hermione and Draco and Sirius and you, and to the holes in my memory, and to the—change in my spells.” He gave his new wand a swish.  
  
“I would do what I can to help you,” said Severus. He felt helpless, and he hated being that way. “I wish—I cannot change the past. But I wish I could.”  
  
Harry swallowed, and looked up at him again. “I know,” he said, and his face and eyes were present this time, though so weary that Severus wanted to turn away. He looked as if he were really struggling to accept all this instead of simply stating the facts that he had to accept, and Severus did not know how a single teenager could do that. “It’s just—a lot to get used to, all at once.  
  
“But I do appreciate the fact that you’re honest with me,” he added. “And that you arranged for me to stay somewhere else during the summer. And that you helped me against Voldemort. I just don’t want to see you for a month.” The final words rushed out. “I—that’s all right, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes, it is,” said Severus, and restrained the urge to advise Harry about the holes in his memory. There was no one Harry would probably trust to inspect his mind except Draco, and Draco was not yet skilled enough in Legilimency. He did say, because he could not help himself, “Are you all right?”  
  
Harry snorted, sounding human again. “Define all right.” Then he shook his head. “It’s a lot to get used to all at once,” he repeated. “But I have to grow up and _do_ it. It’s not going to go away just because I want it to. The past’s not going to change, as you said.”  
  
He nodded formally to Severus. “Thank you, sir.” And then he turned and marched out of the room.  
  
“I could send Draco to you,” Severus told his back, because he did not think Harry should handle all this by himself.  
  
“Not this evening,” Harry said, without turning or slowing. “I always did my best mourning and raging alone.”  
  
And he shut the door before Severus could even make the reassurances about Harry’s not being alone that he realized, now, he ought to have made from the beginning.  
  
*  
  
Harry climbed the steps to the Astronomy Tower without realizing they had all gone past until he was leaning on the battlements. Then he let himself just stand there and stare at the Forbidden Forest and the nearly full moon until his eyes blurred and the urge to cry left.  
  
It was so much. He didn’t know if he could handle it all.   
  
But it was grow big enough to encompass all of it, or die.   
  
And Harry didn’t plan on dying.  
  
As he stood there, anger flared in him. It was different from the mindless, unreasoning rage he’d felt when Voldemort was in his body and mind, and it was different from the dull way he was always angry at the Dursleys.  
  
He was angry at everything he’d _lost_. Because Dumbledore had decided that he should spend his childhood with sadists. Because Voldemort had killed his parents. Because he’d spent so much of the year apart from Draco and had that stupid fight with him. Because he’d been distancing himself from Ron and Hermione, assuming without even thinking about it that they couldn’t stand beside him in the battle against Voldemort. Because he had spent so much time distrusting Snape.  
  
He’d been _robbed_. There were so many things he was missing, so many things he didn’t know about himself, didn’t understand, even though he would have his bloody sixteenth birthday next month.  
  
And one thing he intended to do was to get those things _back._  
  
He was going to fight to regain his memories. He was going to fight to keep his friends and get Sirius over the fear in his eyes. He was going to stay close to Draco and Snape despite all the things tugging him in the opposite direction.  
  
He was going to reject this piece of Voldemort and _bloody get his life back_.  
  
He’d put up with so much: Dumbledore’s silence, Snape’s treatment before he learned better, Voldemort’s nightmares, Seamus’s burning his things, the Dursleys’ starvation, Draco’s danger, and so many damn secrets about himself. No more. He was put in Gryffindor a reason, wasn’t he? He got things by fighting, didn’t he? He’d had to strike back at Voldemort when Snape helped him, in the graveyard, when Tom Riddle was in the diary, when Voldemort lurked in the back of Quirrell’s head. And he’d had to fight the Dementors to keep Sirius alive, and he’d had to fight to listen to Snape instead of just running out of the room tonight, and he’d had to fight his distrust of Draco.  
  
(Right now he was fighting to consider, instead of just reject, the implications of naming Draco ‘beloved’ the way he had. But that was a battle he’d have to wage for some time longer).  
  
And no matter how right the prophecy turned out to be—and Harry didn’t think it was completely right, since he knew very well that Draco wouldn’t let him fight alone—he thought he could fight his fate, too, and take hold of destiny with both hands, and give it a good yank in the other direction.  
  
It was worth trying, anyway. Anything was better than just lying passively back and letting people trample over him the way he had been doing.  
  
Harry reared back and cast a Patronus upwards. The silver stag shot away from him, pivoted in the air, and gave him a full, sweeping salute, bowing its antlers, from the top of the sky. Then it reared and charged into the starlight.  
  
Harry followed its progress with an unblinking stare, and reached out a hand to pull his future down, kicking and screaming, to eye level.  
  
He was going to be a warrior no matter how things turned out, wasn’t he? Then let him be a _willing_ one. He thought Dumbledore’s mistake, and Snape’s, too, was to hide from what was obvious as long as they could. Not him. He was done with that. He was going to go out there, and go into battle, and use whatever power he had to get rid of all the things that stood in his way.  
  
Unjust things. He finally realized that. He’d been afraid of hurting someone, but that was like Dumbledore; you could try and try not to hurt someone and end up hurting them anyway.  
  
So from now on he would try acting, and see where that got him.   
  
The night rushed forwards, the earth spinning through the darkness, bringing the day closer and closer, and Harry opened his arms to embrace it.


	21. Contraries

  
His father’s face, staring up at him like a mask carved of resentment and hatred…  
  
“Are you well, Draco?”  
  
The heavy hand falling on his shoulder pulled Draco back to the present. It was true that his father had sometimes touched him like that, but solely as a steering motion or to remind Draco not to let down the family name in front of an important visitor. This was different. Draco didn’t know how, and he knew Lucius would have scorned his inability to put the difference into words, but it _was_. There was gentleness behind his touch, and he knew that the strength would be used to support and protect him, instead of crush him.  
  
“I’m fine, sir,” he said, turning and smiling up at Professor Snape. “Just tired.”  
  
Snape raised one eyebrow, as though to say weariness was a bad sign, but swept ahead of Draco to undo the wards. “What you have endured was a trial,” he said, his voice neutral.  
  
Draco snorted softly as he followed Snape into the house that was going to be his home for the summer. Snape had used that word deliberately, so Draco could think it was a simple statement of the literal if he pleased, but which would also serve as an expression of sympathy if _that_ was the way Draco wanted to interpret it. It was no wonder Harry had spent so much time trying to figure out if Snape was serious or not when he offered help. Draco hadn’t ever known anyone, even his father, who was so good at hiding their emotions.  
  
“I never expected it,” he said, leaning against the wall beside the door as the wards sprang back up and looking around the room. It was only too obviously without the tender loving care of house-elves, but, dim as the corners were, shabby as the furniture was, it seemed like a paradise to Draco. He would be free of Lucius as long as he stayed here. “To stand up against my father and say that I didn’t want to be in his custody anymore. I could have pictured abandoning my magic before I abandoned my family.”  
  
“And now?” Snape asked, shifting his weight behind Draco as if the task of resetting the wards was harder than Draco knew it was. “Do you still feel that way?”  
  
“Of course not,” Draco said sharply, “or I would have broken my wand.” He turned around and frowned at Snape. Snape had said a few things like that since they came to Spinner’s End from Hogwarts, and Draco didn’t like what the words implied. “Do you think I _should_? Or do you really think that the sacrifice I made for Harry wasn’t worth it?”  
  
“You are the only one who can answer that,” Snape said, calmly, infuriatingly, his eyes searching Draco’s face. He had one hand on the latch of the door, and he cast a complicated spell with a simple movement of his fingers even as Draco watched. Angry as he was, Draco made mental note of the spell as one he wanted to learn this summer. “But I do think that some of the statements you have made are problematic, yes. You cannot define yourself as a sacrifice for Harry’s sake, any more than you could define yourself as your father’s son forever. You were made for finer things than that, higher things. I want you to think about defining yourself. Why are _you_ doing this, Draco? What do _you_ get out of it?”  
  
Draco snorted, amused despite his uneasiness. “You want me to act like a Slytherin, you mean.”  
  
“Well? Is that not what you are?” Snape cocked his head slowly, reminding Draco of a magical serpent he’d once startled whilst he was exploring around the Manor. It had been orange and gold, not at all the kinds of colors that Snape wore, but it had slithered up to him, head turned like that, as if it was estimating how he would fit into its mouth. Draco had never found out what kind it was, mostly because he’d run about that time, but he remembered it well enough. He swallowed now as Snape continued to give him that look. “You are still a student, and your House identification is important. You only have two more years at Hogwarts, Draco. Then you will be out in the world and making your own decisions. It would be well for you to build a firm base of your own talents and experience before you _must_.”  
  
Draco nodded. He couldn’t really deny that Snape was making sense. And Snape spoke about it in a way that made it hard for Draco to get angry, whilst when Lucius made speeches like this they always seemed pompous. “All right. But the problem is that I have to think of what I’m teaching Harry, too, and learn what’s useful for that.”  
  
“And you are incapable of learning more than one thing at the same time?” Snape lifted his lip in a small curl. “Don’t tell me that you have Crabbe blood.”  
  
Draco laughed, although Snape’s words reminded him uncomfortably for a moment of the fact that he would have to go back to school after the holidays, and he had no idea how his Housemates would react to his abandoning Lucius. “I used to want to be an inventor,” he said. “A creator of new spells, new magical theories, new fields of study.”  
  
“A worthy ambition,” said Snape. “I myself have perfected new potions, as you know—though there is always the chance of suffering the disappointment of an inventor who discovers that others cannot use his research as it was meant to be used.” He turned away from Draco and headed towards another small, shabby room that was probably the library, because Draco could catch a glimpse of shelves through the open door. “Come. I have some books that you should read.”  
  
Draco followed Snape, breathing deeply. He took in enough dust with one of the breaths to sneeze, but still, Spinner’s End smelled like home.  
  
*  
  
Copsham Cottage was a small house, with only three rooms downstairs—a kitchen, a library, and an entrance hall—and three upstairs—two bedrooms and a bathroom. There was barely even a corridor connecting the bedrooms. And they were decorated in colors that the Dursleys would have found nonthreatening, a mixture of pale yellow and white.   
  
Harry didn’t care. There was no one at the Cottage yelling at him, starving him, or locking him in his room. Already that made it a better summer than any he’d had except when he stayed with the Weasleys.  
  
For the first three days at the safehouse, he slept and ate. His body seemed to be getting revenge for last summer and for the months of nightmares all at once. Harry only woke up when his stomach hurt him hard enough, and he only stopped eating when he felt he would vomit if he tried to eat anything more. He ate bread, pies, cakes, bacon, fish, beef, soup, lettuce, potatoes, and shining red apples like the ones that he used to see in his dreams at Privet Drive. And he _wallowed_ in the bed, which was enchanted to mold to his body and readjust itself during the night so that he never woke up with a pain in his neck or sides.  
  
He woke up on the fourth morning feeling refreshed, deeply grateful to Snape, and determined to start his training again. He couldn’t make himself _just_ into a warrior, the way he’d been dreaming of last year; there were too many other things to consider, like the people who had helped him and who might resent him neglecting himself. But he did have to study.  
  
He knew exactly what he wanted to study, too. But he didn’t know how to get at it. He doubted that such a subject would be among the books in the library.  
  
He went thoughtfully down the stairs to the kitchen, and stopped in surprise. He’d been vaguely aware during the last three days that Mrs. Weasley was watching him, and that she was happy to make him as much as he could eat. But now it was Remus who stood in the middle of the kitchen, frowning intently at the pan of eggs cooking itself over the fire.  
  
“Remus?” he whispered. “Is Sirius all right?”  
  
Remus smiled and glanced at him over his shoulder. He looked tired, but Harry also thought there was a lightness about him, too, like he’d finally heard some bad news he’d been waiting for for a long time and it wasn’t as bad as he expected. “Of course,” he said. “So much all right, in fact, that he finally got tired of my fussing and chased me out of his house for a while.” He poked dubiously at the eggs, and then nodded in satisfaction and levitated the pan off the fire. “So I thought I’d come and visit you.”  
  
Harry laughed and sat down at the table. “What have you been doing? Sirius told me that it was secret, and he _couldn’t_ tell me.” He took the glass of pumpkin juice Remus handed him with a little nod, watching his face covertly all the while. It was time to see if someone besides Snape, Draco, and his closest friends could manage to be honest with him.  
  
“I was working with the werewolves.” Remus scooped some eggs onto his own plate and some onto Harry’s, keeping his eyes strictly on the pan all the while. Harry wondered if he was ashamed to meet Harry’s gaze. “Dumbledore wanted me to get in contact with a particular pack run by a werewolf named Fenrir Greyback. He’s the one who—who bit me.”  
  
“And you were supposed to get in _contact_ with him?” Harry almost choked on his pumpkin juice. “Why? Why would he make you do something like that?’  
  
Remus didn’t reply for long moments, staring at the eggs as if they held the secrets of the universe. Then he sighed, picked up his fork, and started eating. At least he was looking Harry in the eye this time. “Dumbledore didn’t make me do anything,” he said. “The Order of the Phoenix is made up of adults, Harry. We can choose to fight for what we believe in without having to be coerced.”  
  
Harry bristled, because usually when people talked about adults they followed it up with some reminder of how he _wasn’t_ , yet. “And I’m a child?” he said. “Besides, it still wasn’t right to ask you to go into that much danger.”  
  
Remus gave him a little smile. “Sirius has made it abundantly clear that I’m not to treat you like a child, anymore,” he said. “And Fenrir Greyback is an ally of You-Know-Who. So, you see, it’s important that we learn something about his movements.” He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I failed, though. Fenrir likes to taunt me, but he didn’t believe my story about being fed up with the Ministry and wanting to live with my own kind.”  
  
Harry nodded. “I’m sorry you failed, but I still think it was rotten to ask you to go into danger like that.” He started hungrily eating his eggs.   
  
“I understand your feelings, Harry.” Remus reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “And I know that you have reason to distrust him, but I do wish you would make up with Headmaster Dumbledore. He’s miserable over his mistakes concerning you.”  
  
Harry felt sympathy and pity wake up in him, but he didn’t really feel like experiencing them right now. So he swallowed and shook his head. “I want him to suffer for a little while,” he said. “The way I did.”  
  
Remus stared at him, seeming somewhere between shocked and flabbergasted. “That’s very—Slytherin of you, Harry,” he said at last.  
  
“But it’s true,” said Harry. “And anyway, I didn’t know you still called things Slytherin and Gryffindor.” He began eating more eggs, wondering if it was a good idea to have Remus here after all. “Did Sirius tell you what I told him about the abuse?” he asked his plate.  
  
“Yes.” Remus spoke so softly that it took Harry a minute to be sure he’d heard him. “I just—I didn’t think Dumbledore knew, Harry.”  
  
“He didn’t know the _details_.” Harry pushed his plate away, not hungry enough to finish breakfast for the first time since he got here. “But he knew they didn’t treat me well. And he refused to adopt me himself or let someone around Hogwarts adopt me just because there was a _chance_ he might hurt me.” He shook his head, bile rising up in his throat. “I don’t want to feel sorry for him, Remus. Maybe someday I can. But not now. He did too much to hurt me.”  
  
Remus sighed. “I didn’t mean to imply that your pain didn’t matter, Harry. But—maybe it’s hard for me to deal with, too, knowing the Muggles did that to you and I didn’t realize it.”  
  
“All right,” Harry said, the most gracious thing he _could_ say at the moment, and then retreated from the kitchen into the library. He was shaking, and he had to lean a hand on the shelves for a moment to prop himself up.   
  
_They all want me to feel sorry for Dumbledore. They all want me to act like he hurt more. They all want me to be a hero and selfless and nothing more than that._  
  
Harry took a deep breath and licked his lips. Those thoughts were unfair, too; he knew Sirius didn’t want that, because he’d been horrified and indignant when he learned from Harry what Snape had learned from Dumbledore. But as long as Harry didn’t yell at someone else, then he could be as spiteful in his head as he liked. It was better, at least, than denying what he’d felt, which he’d spent too much time during the school year doing.  
  
Partially to distract himself, he began to scan the shelves. It didn’t take long. There weren’t actually as many books at Copsham Cottage as he’d thought, and the Darkest one was a Defense book that talked about how to counter some of the curses Snape had taught him. Harry muttered about Light wizards who thought they had to defend themselves by being ignorant and folded his arms.  
  
 _All right. I need to know about Horcruxes, and there’s only one person who might be able to fetch me books about that.  
  
And I know who I want with me, now. Who I_ need _to have with me, if Remus and the others are going to be stupid about Dumbledore._  
  
Harry went upstairs to find Hedwig, and write a letter.  
  
*  
  
 _Dear Professor Snape:  
  
I know that you’ll understand why I need a book on Horcruxes. I’m not going to ask what you do or where you have to go to get it. But I need it. If there’s any way to destroy the Horcruxes more easily than I destroyed the diary, then I need to know that.   
  
I want to see Draco, too. Can you bring him to Copsham Cottage in a few days? Please don’t wait until you find the book, if it takes longer than that. I need to see him. Besides, I think it would be good to start the Occlumency lessons again. Voldemort’s left me alone for this long, but that might not last.  
  
Thanks,  
Harry Potter._  
  
Severus clenched his hand around the letter and took a deep breath. He did not understand the emotions raging through him, and it took him long moments to calm himself, to separate his mind from those feelings and retreat to a vantage point from which he could look at them rationally.   
  
He was hurt that Harry had not written asking for his presence.  
  
He was worried that, by researching Horcruxes, Harry would lay himself open to the influence of Dark magic, which often accompanied Dark Arts books. Some believed that the pages themselves absorbed the intent of their writers, or at least of the wizards who used them with intent to harm.  
  
But Severus himself had never believed that, and it would be far more dangerous for Harry to face the Dark Lord with no knowledge of Horcruxes at all. Besides, who had the right to know about them if Harry did not, since he _was_ one?  
  
As for the first emotion, it had no place in his mind at all.  
  
Severus turned to call Draco. He would be thrilled to go on a visit to Harry; though he had been content at Spinner’s End, his personality fitting in as compatibly with Severus’s as Severus had foreseen that it would, he mentioned Harry at least three times a day and sometimes stared off into space with a wistful look.   
  
_And all Harry’s not asking for you means is that he does not yet wish to see you. He told you it would be at least a month.  
  
Stop feeling sorry for yourself._  
  
Sadly, that was one commandment that Severus had never yet been able to obey.  
  
*  
  
Draco gasped as he staggered back from Harry’s shields. They were thicker and firmer than he could have imagined their becoming in the single week since he’d last seen Harry. Maybe they wouldn’t stand up to the kind of pounding that Draco knew himself capable of resisting, and of course Harry would take a long time to be as good an Occlumens as Professor Snape was, but it was an enormous improvement.  
  
“How did you _do_ that?” he demanded, the moment he recovered his breath.  
  
Harry smiled. “Well, you know that I use you as my anchor for the shields,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”  
  
Draco paused. There was an odd note in Harry’s voice that he didn’t understand. And the way Harry turned away a moment after that, as if he didn’t want to meet Draco’s eyes, made Draco wonder if he was hiding something.  
  
“And anyway,” Harry went on, his voice changing so suddenly that Draco wondered if he’d imagined the hiding, “we’ve practiced Occlumency for two hours now. I want to go out and fly.”  
  
“You can do that here?” Draco cast a dubious glance out the window of Copsham Cottage. The windows _showed_ a sunny garden with the light playing over borders of flowers, but he didn’t know if it actually looked like that. When he’d first arrived, he’d been horrified at how small the place was. But then, he reckoned that Snape’s house at Spinner’s End actually wasn’t that much bigger; it just _felt_ bigger because it had more rooms. And Harry seemed happy. But that didn’t guarantee the existence of a Quidditch pitch.  
  
“Yes.” Harry grinned at him. “I know, it doesn’t look like much, does it? But the grounds are strongly warded because sometimes they had too many people staying here to fit in the rooms. So we have a place to fly, as long as we don’t go too far from the house.” He paused. “You did bring your broom, didn’t you?”  
  
Draco snorted. “Of course.” He’d been hoping to coax Harry back to Spinner’s End and the small park Severus had shown him, surrounded with so many Muggle-repelling charms that Draco could fly in safety. But bringing his broom was the surer thing given the way Harry reacted to his mentioning Snape, and he ran to fetch it from inside the entrance hall. Harry followed him down the stairs; they’d been practicing in his bedroom, which was the only place they wouldn’t potentially damage valuable books or dishes.  
  
Draco peered about as he picked up his broom and noted with satisfaction that the strange pink-haired woman who’d been staying with Harry and introduced herself as Tonks wasn’t anywhere around. He turned to Harry, whose mouth was just opening to say something, and gripped his shoulders, looking into his eyes. Harry fell silent and stared at him in confusion.  
  
“You _are_ happy?” Draco whispered. “You haven’t been having nightmares? Not even possession nightmares, but nightmares about your relatives? You would tell me if you were, right?”  
  
Harry watched him with calm, understanding eyes for long moments. Then he nodded and reached up to take Draco’s hands, gently removing them from his shoulders.  
  
“Yes,” he said. Draco stared at him again, but this time Harry didn’t turn away or act like there was something he wanted to conceal. “I’ve learned to stop hiding things that could hurt other people,” Harry said, and he said it like a vow. “I want to _help_ them, not hurt them. I only hid them in the first place because I thought it would cause you more pain if you knew, not because my pain was small. It wasn’t.” He swallowed. Draco moved a step closer, and was delighted to see Harry lean slightly towards him, which looked like an unconscious gesture but was still very welcome. “I haven’t had nightmares since I came here. I’ve had a chance to recover from my relatives’ abuse, and I’m doing something else besides studying. I’m busy, Draco, and I’m happier than I’ve been in years. I promise.”  
  
“Even without me?” Draco cursed himself for saying that the instant he did, because Harry stopped grinning and looked at him seriously, and then—  
  
And then Draco couldn’t curse himself for saying that after all, because Harry had moved closer, wrapped his arms around him, and was cradling him as if Draco had been the one who suffered abuse and not him. It was the first time Draco remembered receiving a hug like this without something traumatic happening first. He hugged Harry back, in happy disbelief, and sighed a little as he let his head rest on Harry’s shoulder. For just a moment he could forget the fact that Harry still had no idea Draco loved him, and he could think they were out of this war, with everything dangerous behind them and nothing worse ahead than figuring out what it meant to love each other.  
  
“I do miss you,” Harry whispered. His hand had moved into Draco’s hair and was running through it, and what Draco adored about the gesture was that it was unconscious, just like the way Harry had leaned into him, and Harry wasn’t doing it because he thought he had to or to oblige a friend. “But I think I needed to be by myself, or almost by myself. When I’m with you or Snape, I’m thinking about _everything_ , Draco, not just learning. I need to rest, too, and dream, and get used to the fact that I’m not going back to the Dursleys’ ever again.”  
  
Then he stepped back before Draco could react, and cuffed him on the shoulder. “Are we going flying or not? And are you going to need a hug every time you get into the air? Try telling that to your Quidditch team.”  
  
*  
  
“ _Ouch_ , mate.”  
  
“Sorry, Ron,” Harry said guiltily. He had known the moment he cast the Blasting Curse that it was too strong, but ever since Snape had taught him to concentrate on the effects of the spells instead of flinging all his power behind them, they really had got stronger. And so he’d thrown Ron into the wall before he realized what was happening.  
  
 _Maybe there’s a way to absorb the energy of a spell just after you’ve cast it_ , he thought. He would have to look into that. He went to help Ron stand up and examined the scorch mark on the wall, wincing. Tonks was staying with him again this week, and she was nice enough, but she did tend to ask a lot of questions.  
  
“What happened? I heard the noise from downstairs!” The door thumped open as Hermione hurried into the room. “Were you using curses? There _must_ be some safer way to learn this, Harry. Why don’t you find it? Are you bleeding, Ron?” She stepped up to Ron and made him turn around so that she could get a look at the back of his head, Ron grumbling all the while that he was fine but looking pleased at the attention.  
  
 _Speaking of a lot of questions_ , Harry thought, grinning as he moved into the corner so that Hermione could have better access to Ron. Hermione had been studying in the library just in case Harry had missed a source of information about Horcruxes that would be useful, and still had one finger in her giant book.  
  
He watched his best friends in contentment. It was good to be with them again, and as long as a woman was staying with him—and Tonks and Mrs. Weasley had both agreed to watch him over the last week whilst Hermione and Ron were here, as well as an Auror named Hestia Jones—then she and Hermione could share one bedroom, and Harry and Ron the second. It was like being back at Hogwarts, falling asleep to the sound of Ron’s breathing.  
  
In fact, this whole summer was like being at Hogwarts, or a combination of Hogwarts and the Burrow. Harry still hadn’t got his breath back yet or stopped being deliriously happy every time something small showed up and reminded him of the differences between Copsham Cottage and Privet Drive.  
  
“I don’t need _that_ much fussing, Hermione.” Ron was trying to pull away from her, an offended expression on his face. “I’ll get that much from my mum. I’m not bleeding.”  
  
“Shut up, I can’t see!” Hermione snapped at him, and then cast a Sticking Charm to tie his feet to the floor.  
  
“ _Hermione_ ,” Ron said, but Harry saw the expression on his face change to a half-grin, and thought he didn’t really mind being caught like that.  
  
“Why do you have to have all this _hair_ ,” Hermione said, running her fingers through it, and, Harry thought, taking longer than she really needed.  
  
It reminded him of the way he had touched Draco’s hair the other day…  
  
Harry sighed. _Yes, let’s consider that, shall we?_  
  
He had no idea, really, how or when he’d fallen in love with Draco. (If that was what had happened. Harry was still considering other possibilities at the moment). None of it made sense. Why should he fall in love with anyone, first of all, when he’d probably die in the battle with Voldemort? And then, he used to like girls. He remembered daydreaming about Cho, and sometimes about Hermione, just because she was a girl and always around, and that was the kind of thing most blokes thought about. And there might have been a time he thought he’d marry Ginny, when she went through that embarrassing hero-worship phase and then Sirius and Remus told him about the way that his dad had worshipped his mum.  
  
But falling in love with a boy was never part of the plan.  
  
Harry just didn’t know how it would _work_. He knew boys and girls had sex, or men and women did, and had children. Sometimes he had dreams about that, too. He knew a little about sex, thanks to the twins and overheard conversations and snogging from the seventh-years. But it didn’t include _him_. He’d redefined himself out of that equation without even realizing it, at least until this summer.  
  
But two blokes? Why would they have sex? Why would they want to have sex? They couldn’t have kids (unless there was some really strange wizarding world magic he didn’t know about, and in this case Harry _wanted_ to remain in blissful ignorance). Would they have to have sex? Did he have to have sex with Draco if he was in love with him?  
  
There were so many questions, and Harry didn’t know what was right or not, the way he would have known about it—all right, a little bit about it—with a girl. So for now he was just turning the questions over in his head and thinking about them and sometimes coming up with answers that surprised himself.  
  
It was nice to have a secret that, for once, was incapable of hurting anyone, a secret that was his alone.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
Harry started and looked up. Ron and Hermione were both staring at him expectantly. He reckoned they had finished their own flirting session and were ready to get back to the training now.  
  
 _And so should you be_ , he told himself, and resolutely banished thoughts of snogging Draco from his mind.  
  
*  
  
“Hello, Professor Snape.”  
  
Severus felt as though a heavy burden had fallen from his shoulders with the sound of Harry’s voice, which warned him, if he hadn’t known before, how very much afraid he had been that the boy would not want to see him again. And that was in itself potentially disastrous, this worry. There were reasons that Severus selected so few students for personal favoritism. He had always known that association with him was not a guarantee of a long or happy life.  
  
But then, Harry was in danger already, as was Draco. Perhaps it was as safe to be fond of them as it was to be fond of anyone.  
  
 _Although that did not save Lily._  
  
Severus shook himself and realized that Harry was still standing on the stairs, watching him with shadowed eyes, and doubtless waiting for a response. “I did find the book on Horcruxes you asked for,” he said, and held out the heavy tome bound in half-slimy leather, glad to be rid of it. Harry, on the other hand, took it and looked at it with grim satisfaction. “I am sorry it took a month. It proved hard to track down. It was among the books that the Headmaster had removed from the Hogwarts library.”  
  
Harry looked up sharply. “Did he do that—on purpose?”  
  
Severus was not reluctant to encourage Harry to distrust Dumbledore, but he preferred that Harry pay attention to the man’s actual crimes, and supporting the Dark Lord was not one of them. “I believe he was researching,” he said smoothly. “He did owl me, when he sent the book, to say that he had located one of the other Horcruxes.” He raised an eyebrow. “And as he believes that the book will not leave my possession, I will thank you not to make the suggestion that he might be plotting against you to his face.”  
  
“Of course not,” Harry muttered. “That might make him suspicious. I’m going to have a hard enough time convincing him that I can actually play a part in the war. I’ll be calm and polite in front of Dumbledore, because that’s the only way he’ll ever consider me enough of an adult.”  
  
He was busy looking at the book and didn’t notice Severus’s stare at him. Severus covered his face with a mask as blank and smooth as the one Harry was planning in the next moment. _He has made a resolve to act like a Slytherin, at last, or perhaps simply to use the brain he was born possessing._   
  
“And have you considered,” he began slowly, “what we spoke of the last time we saw each other?”  
  
Harry looked up then, and put the book on the step beside him, and leaned a shoulder on the wall. He folded his arms and watched Severus with a sardonic expression. Severus doubted he would like to be told that his body language was defensive; he had shifted so that more of his back was to the wall than before, and his breathing had sped up.  
  
Considering the circumstances, Severus could hardly blame him.  
  
“I still don’t like you very much,” said Harry. His voice was low, and for the first time Severus could hear a resemblance to Lily’s in it. He immediately told himself that such a thing was ridiculous; children did not _sound_ like their parents unless reared in the same environment. Harry had been raised by Muggles, one reason that his diction was so common. Severus’s mother had made sure he knew how to speak properly. “I don’t like what you did. I don’t—it’s hard to think of you as an unrepentant Death Eater. I’ll never _like_ thinking of you that way. And sometimes, when I look at you, I’ll see the murderer of my parents.”  
  
Severus did not bother to point out that the Dark Lord had actually killed the Potters. He knew he had to accept Harry’s judgment now, or he never would, and the barrier would remain between them. He was not stupid enough to make Dumbledore’s mistakes, and speak over Harry’s words because he found them uncomfortable. He waited, slouching a little so that Harry could have even more of the higher ground than he did.  
  
Harry drew a deep, troubled breath, and looked away from him, his eyes directed at the corner of the bottom step. He sounded almost as if he were talking to himself when he spoke next, as if he had forgotten he had an audience. Severus wondered if he should break him of that habit, but then remembered that Harry was new to being able to speak his thoughts at _all_. Caging them in his head was not an acceptable alternative, as it was with Draco, because he seemed to brood on them instead of considering them. So, as long as he did this only in private or with an acceptable audience, Severus could let it pass for now. “But that doesn’t change anything. I’ll have to work with you just like I have to work with Dumbledore.” His eyes slid back to Severus’s face. “The difference is that I can let you _know_ I dislike you—sometimes—and you won’t decide that means I’m a child, because you don’t equate the war with yourself.”  
  
Severus paused. That was not an insight which had come to him or to Draco, but yes, now that he thought about it, that was one explanation for Dumbledore’s behavior. He had not wanted to entrust Harry, the “Savior,” to carry his proper share of the burden—even the one that the prophecy said he was destined to carry. He wanted to control all things relating to the Potters, to the Dark Lord, to the spread of information. And because he was so concerned about hurting others and pretended that he could not foresee the consequences of his actions enough to be sure of what would hurt others and what would not, he had done nothing, and assumed that others could also do nothing.  
  
“I trust you enough to let you know I dislike you. Sometimes.” A small, grim smile flitted across Harry’s mouth. “And I can’t always tell when those outbursts of dislike will come. There’s a lot I don’t know about myself. I’ve been working on finding out, this summer, but sometimes I still yell at Tonks or Remus and they don’t understand why—”  
  
“I can think of many excellent reasons to yell at the werewolf,” Severus murmured.  
  
Harry rolled his eyes at him and went on. “And sometimes I’m wildly grateful for what you did for me, and sometimes I still think it should have been left alone.” He paused and ran a hand over his forehead, his fingers lingering on the lightning bolt scar. “So I’ll be moody and difficult to work with. You’ll have to expect that.”  
  
Severus sneered slightly. “Harry, you speak as if I had not taught in a school full of moody teenagers for years.”  
  
Harry blinked and then flushed slightly. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I forgot that.”  
  
“And I have exercised restraint in our meetings since—telling you the story of my friendship with your mother.” Severus thought that was the safest and potentially the most neutral way to refer to what had followed his rescue of Harry from Umbridge’s torture. “I can exercise more. This will work.”  
  
Harry nodded slowly, his shoulders still tense. “All right. As long as you know that.”  
  
Severus nodded back, and squashed his own yearning for Harry to be comfortable in other ways with him, to seek out his company for other reasons. Considering what truths he had had to inflict on Harry, he should be grateful for this much. And Harry had Gryffindor traits as strong as the Slytherin ones. Let him begin a collaboration focused on the war or on learning spells, and friendship was more likely to follow, because he could not keep his emotions out of it. “What curses have you practiced since we last saw each other?”  
  
*  
  
“Hullo, Draco.”  
  
Draco reached out and shook his mother’s hand, clasping it in his own for long moments. He would have liked to hug her, but Professor Snape was in the room—of course he was; he didn’t entirely trust Narcissa—and he wouldn’t be _quite_ that bold in front of one of his teachers. “Hullo, Mum.”  
  
For a moment, Narcissa looked desperately out of place in the dusty room at Spinner’s End, with her blonde hair flowing down the back of a white silk robe that Draco knew house-elves had woven and tended—and then, as always happened, the room reoriented itself around her and became a natural background. Draco shook his head in wonder. He had always longed to know how she did that. But since part of it was probably being a beautiful woman, he doubted he could learn to do it himself.  
  
Narcissa bent to kiss his cheek, not seeming to care that Professor Snape was watching. “Draco,” she said. “I should warn you that Lucius tried to prevent me from visiting you today, and he will be spying on you when you return to school and trying to convince some of your Housemates to harm you.”  
  
Draco swallowed. It was no more than he had expected, but somehow confirmation made it hurt more. He nodded sturdily, and hoped that not too much undignified emotion showed on his face. “Did he confide his plans specifically?”  
  
“He will contact those he knows well, or who owe him debts,” said Narcissa, and sat down on the couch where Professor Snape usually kept the books he was consulting at the moment. He had removed them when he heard that Draco’s mum would be visiting. “Watch for Parkinson, Crabbe, and Goyle. As usual, he has failed to persuade Blaise Zabini’s mother that he has anything worth offering.”  
  
Draco nodded and sat beside her. “And Bulstrode?”  
  
Narcissa lightly shrugged her shoulders. “Holding neutral, for the moment. The Greengrass family has withdrawn both their daughters from the school and is unlikely to participate in this contest at all. The Notts do not, as yet, show any sign of responding to Lucius’s overtures. I suspect they are trying to gain their own standing in the Dark Lord’s court.”  
  
Draco listened intently, forcing himself to absorb the information as he had Professor Snape’s books on spell creation. The thought of one of his yearmates turning against him scraped against his bones like a knife, but he would just have to get used to it. “And are there any other families he mentioned?” he asked, when Narcissa paused in her recitation.  
  
“Not as yet.” Narcissa smiled with her lips alone, but her eyes shone—not with tears, Draco noted. “But I am able to do something to restrain him, Draco. I have possession of certain secrets that he would not want to get out. I am unable, I fear, to prevent someone from harming you in Hogwarts, given my distance from the school. But I can and _will_ give you the means to protect yourself.”  
  
She reached into a fold of her robes and removed a book. Draco blinked. He could tell the moment it emerged into the open air that it was a Dark Arts book, but it had been so strongly shielded by the cloth that he hadn’t sensed its presence. His respect for his mother grew. He would have to learn that spell, or else commission robes from the house-elves, which his mother was unusual in doing.  
  
He took the book and opened it to the first page. To his surprise, it was blank. He looked up at Narcissa.  
  
“This is a book Lucius does not realize that I knew he had,” Narcissa said. “ _Had_ being the important word.” She looked as smug as a cat who had escaped the bath. “It contains a great deal of Dark Arts knowledge—spells, but also rituals, potions, and many other things, willed into the book by its possessors. You must ask it questions, and it will reveal what it can to you.”  
  
In wonder, Draco looked back at the blank page. “The Cruciatus Curse,” he said.  
  
The surface of the page boiled like a maelstrom—rather dizzying to look at, Draco thought—and then a long list of information appeared. It was an index of sorts, Draco realized, starting with the name of the wizard who had invented the Cruciatus Curse and continuing from there.  
  
“The book is now about that particular spell,” Narcissa said, sounding satisfied. “And it will continue to be until you ask it about something else.” She touched Draco’s hand. “Of course, about less common topics there will not be a wealth of knowledge.”  
  
“I don’t care,” Draco said, ecstatic. “I don’t think that many of the other Slytherins will have received more specialized Dark Arts training than I have. Their parents wouldn’t trust them not to use that magic against their own families.” He flung his arms around his mother, Professor Snape’s silent, disapproving presence be damned.  
  
Narcissa touched the nape of his neck. “You are welcome, my son.”  
  
Draco smiled. _I can’t wait to ask the book about Horcruxes._  
  
*  
  
“Harry. May I speak to you for a moment?”  
  
Harry stiffened, then sighed and turned around. He had _known_ this was coming. Mostly, he resented Dumbledore for confronting him just as he came out of the hospital wing, where he had been to visit Sirius. Madam Pomfrey had high hopes that Sirius would regain the use of his twisted hand with further physical and spell therapy, and Harry had been on his way back to Gryffindor Tower to share the good news with Ron and Hermione. It would liven up their first night at school as sixth-year students.  
  
Or it would have, he thought as he faced Dumbledore. “Your office, Headmaster?” He reminded himself of his resolution during the summer and kept his voice calm, polite, almost bored.  
  
Dumbledore peered at him intently. Harry looked at the floor. No need to let the old man read his thoughts.  
  
“Yes, Harry,” Dumbledore said, sounding old and sad, and led him down the stairs.  
  
In the office itself, Harry sat in a chair directly in front of the desk and responded with one word-answers to all the questions the Headmaster tried to ask him about his summer, until at last Dumbledore gave a world-weary sigh and folded his hands in front of him.   
  
“I have two pieces of news for you, Harry,” he said, “and one piece of advice.”  
  
Harry just nodded.  
  
“The first piece of news is that I have secured another of Voldemort’s Horcruxes,” said Dumbledore firmly, “and have a good idea of the hiding place of one more. Unfortunately, I believe, from evidence I sought during the summer, that he has created at least six in total, apart from you. He would think that he has split his soul into seven pieces, and he regards seven as a mystical, magical number.”  
  
Harry stared for a moment despite himself. “He’d split his soul that many times just to match a magical, mystical number?” he had to ask. “Is he really that stupid?”  
  
Dumbledore smiled briefly. “One of the things I think you will discover about Voldemort as this war goes on, my boy, is that he is far from rational. Superstition has a greater hold on him than logical planning.” He leaned forwards. “The Horcrux is a stone on a ring belonging to his ancestors—the descendents of Slytherin. As yet, I have no idea how to destroy it. I will ask for your help in the future.”  
  
Harry nodded. This was the kind of help he had hoped Dumbledore would ask him for, anyway, and if Voldemort was immortal because of the Horcruxes, it was more important than going out and fighting on the front lines.  
  
“The other Horcrux I know of is probably his snake, Nagini.” Dumbledore gave him a small smile. “And she would be with her master, of course. We may have to leave her until the last, as she is surely the hardest to come at.  
  
“And the second piece of news is that Dolores Umbridge has been sentenced to Azkaban, and will remain there for five years at least. The Wizengamot found the evidence of what she had done too copious to ignore.”  
  
Harry took a hard breath of relief. He hadn’t wanted to admit it—because, since she’d been arrested, this was _another_ fear that only concerned him—but he had wondered if it was possible that Fudge would manage to get Umbridge out and send her back to Hogwarts.  
  
“My piece of advice might double as a piece of news, as well.” Dumbledore’s smiles had all vanished now. “This has been kept very quiet so as not to panic the public, and because the Ministry does not, as yet, entirely understand how they achieved it. But several Death Eaters have escaped from Azkaban, my boy, and made their way back to Voldemort’s side. One of them is his most dangerous, Bellatrix Lestrange. Voldemort often used her as his second-in-command during the first war, and he particularly delighted in having her hunt down people who had escaped him before. She was the one who tortured Neville Longbottom’s parents into insanity, because the Longbottoms had defied her master three times. I am afraid that, since Voldemort has failed to secure you with his Legilimency, he may have assigned Bellatrix to the hunt for you. It would be his way of pretending that you were not worth his own time.”   
  
“What kind of spells does she use?” Harry asked at once. He was running the list of curses that Snape had taught him through his head, ready to match them up with Lestrange’s specialty.  
  
“A rare kind, unfortunately,” Dumbledore said. “Other than the Unforgivables, she relies on the spells that manipulate fear.”  
  
Harry paused. Snape had said it was almost useless to teach Harry those spells, because one had to understand the emotions that drove them—as one had to know pain to cast the Cruciatus—and Harry was too fearless, being a Gryffindor.  
  
“Because of this,” Dumbledore said, “she can fairly easily corrupt the people around you into betrayal, and they may not even realize they are giving in to spells instead of their own terrors.” He leaned forwards. “My dear boy, please be careful in whom you place your trust this year.”  
  
Harry swallowed and nodded.  
  
“And that is all I have to say to you,” Dumbledore said with a sigh, “though I hope to meet with you regularly to discuss the Horcruxes.”  
  
Harry stood up at once and escaped. He could feel Dumbledore’s eyes on his back all the way to the door, but the Headmaster didn’t call to him again.  
  
 _That was—tolerable_ , he decided on his way down the moving staircase. _He’s talking about the war, which he must know I want to talk about. He’s treating me like someone who can help him.  
  
I just hope that he doesn’t decide we should have a “heart-to-heart” one of these days._


	22. Bracing

  
_Chapter Twenty-Two—Bracing_  
  
Draco gazed at his mother’s book in dismay. There was only half a page of information on Horcruxes, even though this was the fourth time he had tried to summon that information. He was _sure_ that that wasn’t all the knowledge that existed on them. The Dark Lord must have known more if he’d made several of them.  
  
But it seemed that was as much as he was going to get in response to his question, so, with a sigh, Draco started reading—again.  
  
 _Horcruxes are objects infused with the energy from a murder, which splits the soul. So long as the wizard in question preserves the objects from destruction and change, then he cannot die.  
  
Horcruxes are shadowy objects, not well understood, best left to the more esoteric realms of Dark magic. They are often well-hidden, and not often made, and few facts have been collected about them because of the combination of these circumstances.   
  
It is reported that, in some cases, the Horcruxes can manifest a guardian spirit, a shadowy form of the owner at the point in time that he made the Horcrux. This spirit must be dealt with before the Horcrux can be destroyed. On the other hand, destruction of the Horcrux will result in destruction of the spirit._  
  
Draco shuddered, remembering what Harry had told him about the spirit of Tom Riddle that had shown up, taunted him when the She-Weasel was dying, and tried to force him to abandon the project of saving her. That was not something he was looking forwards to dealing with, and it would surely be a nightmare for Harry to relieve those memories.  
  
He sighed and looked at the last paragraph.  
  
 _One of the few things known to destroy a Horcrux is basilisk venom_.  
  
And that was all.  
  
Draco leaned his head back on the padded chair and swore.  
  
“I _have_ asked you to watch your language, Draco.” Though Professor Snape’s voice was mild, he spoke in a way that let Draco knew he would have to guard his tongue more carefully in the future. He stepped around the chair and glided to the table in the middle of the room, taking a cup of tea that steamed there and sipping it thoughtfully. Draco had thought that his mother terrified the house-elves into obedience effectively, until he began to stay in Professor Snape’s rooms and saw the way he could do it with a freezing stare. “But you are also to share the problems that cause you to swear with me. What is it now?”  
  
Draco held the book out to him. Snape read the paragraphs in silence and then laid the book down on the table near the teapot. Draco tensed reflexively, though he knew full well that Professor Snape had never spilled a cup of tea in his life. He couldn’t tell what his mentor was thinking. Of course, Snape rarely showed any strong emotion unless they were talking directly about Harry or about Draco’s future.  
  
“Well,” said Snape at last, “it is unfortunate that we do not possess more information, but we will do the best we can with what we have.”  
  
“It’s not _enough_ , though!” Draco folded his arms and resisted the urge to claw at the cushion of the chair, especially since Snape had turned and _looked_ at him again for raising his voice. “What are we supposed to do? Where are we supposed to begin? Unless—” He looked hopefully at Snape. “Did that book that you gave Harry contain any more information?”  
  
Snape snorted. “It is mostly a compendium of any information that deals with Horcruxes or might be said to deal with them, including legend, superstition, and rumors of other magical artifacts that the author felt were similar to Horcruxes in some superficial way. No, Draco, I am afraid that we must not rely on that book for any help. The truths are irreparably mingled with the lies, and I do not want to try something that would be harmful to Harry.” He nodded to Draco’s book. “For example, that book mentioned guardian spirits, but only in the guise of many kinds of demons that could be called to defend the Horcrux, and nothing I read implied that they are a manifestation of the Horcrux’s owner.”  
  
“Damn it,” Draco said, and then flinched as Snape flicked him with another lash-like glance. “I don’t know what to _do_.” The protest rose from his heart before he could stop it.  
  
Snape slowly inclined his head. “We are not in this fight alone, if you remember, Draco,” he said. “Harry may also have something to say about it. And now that you have looked up information on Horcruxes, I believe you would be well-advised to read up once more on inventing spells.”  
  
Draco blinked and felt his mouth fall open. “But—that was a summer project. How can you suggest—”  
  
“Your future is even more important in the school year than in the summer,” Snape said calmly, “because this is one month closer to the time when you must leave Hogwarts and begin a life on your own.”  
  
“But I’ll be helping Harry, fighting the war—” Draco thought he knew how Harry felt after Snape had helped push the Dark Lord out of his head and then challenged Dumbledore about his living arrangements, all in the same day. He’d created a strongly etched picture of his future, and Snape had erased it in a few moments, with a few words.  
  
“You are more than that,” Snape said. “What I most fear for you at the moment, Draco, is your losing yourself in Harry’s shadow, becoming only his friend and servant and nothing more. You will be more than that.” His eyes blazed, but other than pride, Draco couldn’t tell which emotions burned to make the light. “If I must push you to be that way, then I will. Now, go and study.”  
  
 _When I agreed to stay with Professor Snape because there was supposedly a plot to kill me my first night back in Slytherin_ , Draco thought, as he went meekly to the library, _I didn’t know that he would take my dreams so_ seriously.  
  
*  
  
Severus was preparing for bed when a large, ghostly raven winged through the wall. He lifted an eyebrow and extended an arm to the bird, which hopped onto it. It was a visual event alone for Severus; he could not feel the weight of the claws that should naturally have touched him. Of course, the raven was not truly there, so this was not surprising.  
  
“What news?” Severus asked, leaning carefully back towards his bed so as not to jolt the raven, though the bird was so insubstantial that it would not have been bothered.  
  
The raven fluffed its feathers, cocked its head from side to side a moment, and then said in Severus’s own voice, “No change.”  
  
Severus smiled grimly and flicked his arm. The raven immediately leaped off it and flew through the wall. Though Severus could not follow its passage with his eyes, he knew it was flying back to Surrey.  
  
He had set the spell to keep a careful eye on Harry’s Muggle “family.” Should the Dursleys have some form of contact with the wizarding world or attempt to shift far away from their house, he would know immediately. In the meantime, the raven would bring him reports of their routine once a week as well as news once a day.  
  
Severus did not plan to avenge himself, and Harry, by attacking the Dursleys.  
  
Not until he knew enough to make it memorably painful.  
  
*  
  
Harry jerked his head up. It had been a typical boring History of Magic class until this point, with Harry half-asleep and half-doodling on his notes. He’d already contemplated everything from Professor Flitwick’s pink socks from that morning to the odd habits of Professor Harmonium, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. She seemed to think they needed to know the _entire_ history of curses and countercurses before they could safely cast anything.  
  
But _now_ …  
  
Now an alarm was vibrating through his head, a shrill squeaky sound that he had never heard before but recognized at once. One of the protective charms that he had cast on his trunk after Seamus was warning him that someone had tried to break into it.  
  
Harry stood up, stretched, and managed to stroll out of the class, at the pace that people usually used when going to the bathroom. He didn’t want Binns stopping and questioning him. But once he was beyond the door, he began to run, casting a Disillusionment Charm on himself without even thinking. He didn’t want to be stopped on the way _there_ , either.  
  
He took the steps as carefully as he could at that speed. He wouldn’t do any good stopping the person who had tampered with his trunk if he broke his head before he got to his bedroom.  
  
And then Gryffindor Tower was in front of him, and the Fat Lady was asking for the password whilst peering doubtfully because she couldn’t see him, and Harry was tersely snapping it out and stepping into the common room.  
  
No one was there at the moment. Harry stood in the silence and emptiness, listening, and heard a soft thump from the direction of the sixth-year boys’ bedroom.  
  
He smiled to himself and began to climb. By the time he reached the door of the bedroom, the thumps were more regular and mingled with curses. Whoever this was had to be frustrated that the trunk wasn’t coming open.  
  
 _Thank you, Draco, for looking in your book for those extra protective charms_ , Harry thought, and then hurled his shoulder against the door.   
  
It opened with a sharp crack, but luckily Harry managed to recover his balance before he could sprawl on the floor; dueling practice had taught him more than just curses and countercurses. He moved into the room, cast the _Finite_ that would cancel the Disillusionment Charm, and pointed his wand at the person disturbing his trunk.  
  
Seamus froze and stared at him. Harry raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you’d try again,” he said, and began to move forwards.  
  
Seamus immediately whipped his wand up. “Stay back!” he said. His voice shook, but there was an expression of fear and fury in his eyes that did make Harry stop. “They taught me spells to use against you.”  
  
“ _Spells_ to use against me,” Harry said, and wasn’t able to keep the sadness and disgust out of his voice. “Come on, Seamus, destroying my broom and cloak and pictures wasn’t enough? You have to bother me again?”  
  
“You’re evil,” said Seamus. His voice trembled on the edge of hysteria now, and Harry thought there were tears in the corners of his eyes. “You don’t understand. You’re _evil_ , and it’s _horrible_.”  
  
Harry wondered if there was any way that he could reach Seamus. “Whoever’s been telling you these lies about me,” he said, “they’re wrong. Seamus, mate, if you would—”  
  
“They’re not lying! He would never lie! My mother would never lie!” Seamus backed away as though Harry had tried to take out his tongue. “Don’t—don’t come any closer!”  
  
Harry looked quickly at his trunk. He didn’t think it was open, so whatever Seamus had been attempting to do hadn’t worked. But that was no reason to trust him. He did keep his voice firm and as soothing as he could when he faced Seamus and took another step. “Seamus, if you would just listen to me—”  
  
Seamus screamed incoherently and cast the Leg-Breaker Curse at him.  
  
Harry snapped the counter without thinking, and then nearly used one of the Dark curses that Snape had taught him. He was surprised and a little appalled at how hard it was to restrain himself. _Snape taught you about those curses so that you could fight them. Not_ use _them. And Seamus is going mad or under a spell. This isn’t the way he was acting just this morning._  
  
He didn’t have a chance to speak again, though. Seamus began to try and kill him in earnest, and Harry had no choice but to defend himself.  
  
Professor Harmonium had made them read the histories of famous battles. Harry had no idea how those duelists and fighters remembered all the curses they cast and their opponents cast. His mind blurred into a furious burst of survival, and all he knew was that he had blocked three spells that were definitely Dark Arts and two more that might not have been, and he had a shallow bleeding cut on his leg, and Seamus was cradling his left arm and looking like he was going to cry.  
  
But Harry had managed to avoid using any Dark Arts himself, and that was a start.  
  
He fell back, breathing heavily, when he realized that Seamus’s wand was on the floor, and cast a Summoning Charm. The wand smacked into his palm. Seamus made a gesture that might have been wandless magic, but if it was, it didn’t work. Harry put the wand in his pocket and cast a Sticking Charm on it.  
  
“I’m going to take you to Madam Pomfrey,” he said. “Something is wrong with you.”  
  
Seamus screamed incoherently and lunged at him. Harry shook his head and cast a Body-Bind on him. Seamus sprawled on the floor and looked up at him with murderous eyes.  
  
Harry had to turn away.  
  
*  
  
“Are you all right?” Draco demanded.  
  
“Of course. I only had one wound, and it got treated.”   
  
Harry answered in a monotone, and never took his eyes from Finnigan, who was lying restrained on a hospital bed. One glance at him let Draco know that he’d been dosed with Dreamless Sleep potion and wouldn’t wake up easily. Still, he didn’t want to have this conversation with Harry in the hospital wing.  
  
“Come on.” Draco put an arm around Harry’s shoulders and spoke softly but firmly. He’d wanted to yell since the moment he heard from gossiping Slytherin fourth-years that Harry had been seen floating Finnigan through the corridors. He knew it wouldn’t accomplish anything, though, and it was always less of an effort to keep his voice soft around Harry than with anyone else. “Let’s go to our room.”  
  
“Our room” was an abandoned classroom on the third floor. A misfired hex had created a permanent leak in the ceiling, and no one had managed to fix it. As usual, Draco had to spell away an inch or so of water on the floor before they could sit down in comfort, but that didn’t matter. The chairs they’d brought here had Impervious Charms on them.  
  
He pushed Harry into one chair and took the other, studying his face carefully. Harry had a fixed, distant look in his eyes that Draco hated. It reminded him too much of last year and how Harry had always tried to be silent if he couldn’t be cheerful.  
  
“What are you thinking about?” Draco had learned the value of bluntness when talking to Gryffindors, at least.  
  
“Seamus,” Harry whispered.  
  
Draco sighed. “He’s not worth the thought you’re wasting on him.”  
  
“I don’t know how he could have degenerated so fast,” Harry went on, exactly as if Draco hadn’t spoken. Draco had to swallow irritation. Yes, he loved Harry, but _damn_ , that just made interruptions worse. “He was fine a few days ago. He glared at me, but mostly he stayed out of my way. And then I felt one of the protection spells warn me that someone was tampering with my trunk, and I went up, and he was there, and he said a bunch of things that didn’t make sense, and then—then he cursed me.”  
  
“Which curse?” Draco sat back and looked at Harry anxiously. Of course the idiot would try and hide any effects of being subject to a Dark spell, because he just wouldn’t think about them.  
  
Harry looked up then, and saw the expression on his face, and crossed the distance between them so fast that Draco was still blinking at afterimages when Harry started hugging him. “Oh, Draco, it didn’t hit,” he murmured. “I’m sorry for worrying you. You do worry a lot, and I don’t want to add to that.” He slid his hands up and down Draco’s back in the way that Draco didn’t like to admit very nearly made him a soft-boned idiot.   
  
“So long as you aren’t lying again,” Draco muttered, and tried not to let his eyes droop shut.  
  
“No,” Harry whispered. “I won’t try that. And I’m sorry if it seemed like I was more worried about Seamus than about you. It just surprised me, that’s all. But you’re more important than he is.”   
  
Draco had to resist the urge to moan. He was going to remember those words later, when he had one of the wank sessions that were frequently necessary to deal with his feelings for Harry these days.  
  
“I don’t want to worry you, ever,” Harry was rambling on, as if he were equally hypnotized by the way his hands were running up and down Draco’s back. Draco preferred that to the other explanation, which was that he’d forgotten Draco was there. “But I know that you worry more when you don’t know things, so I try and tell you about those things now. Sometimes I wonder whether I should tell you that I lo—”  
  
And then he stopped as if horrified.  
  
Draco lifted his head. He was quivering, but he couldn’t help it, because he thought he knew what Harry had almost said. And anyway, he told himself, the quivering was the kind of tremor he would feel at the start of a race.  
  
Harry was silent now, holding him, but standing absolutely still. Draco gently pushed him back far enough that he could look into Harry’s face. “Harry?” he asked, keeping his voice so soft it could almost be ignored. “What were you going to say?”  
  
Harry swallowed and stared at him with overly bright eyes for a long moment. Draco started being sure that he would run. And then he muttered, barely opening his mouth, “I was—going to say that I love you.” He licked his lips and laughed shakily. “Pretty sure that I’m in love with you. Yeah.”  
  
Draco was trembling as he hooked his hand behind Harry’s head. Maybe he should have waited a minute, maybe he should have tried to make sure that Harry was serious, maybe he should have asked more questions, but he was so impatient, and aching, and tired of waiting, and _needing—_  
  
 _It’s all right that I need him_ , he reassured himself as he dragged Harry into a snog. _Just as long as my father never finds out, and I don’t think he’s going to._  
  
*  
  
Harry had dreamed about what it would be like to snog someone, and he’d once read a description of it, fascinated and horrified, from one of the romance novels that Hermione liked to pretend she didn’t read. But he hadn’t known that it would be so messy, and wet, and make it hard to breathe.   
  
Draco’s tongue was in his mouth. _Draco’s tongue was in his mouth_. Harry reached out, half-flailing, because he needed something to hold onto, and his hands slid along a shirt and shoulders and through soft hair, the way they had when he’d hugged Draco that summer.  
  
Draco swayed forwards as if he understood Harry’s desire to hold onto something, and he supported and cradled him a moment later. His tongue remained in Harry’s mouth all the time. Right now he was thoughtfully licking Harry’s teeth, as if he liked the taste of them better than the taste of the rest of Harry’s mouth.  
  
Harry began to taste back, partially in self-defense. He didn’t want Draco to think that Harry was just going to stand here like a girl and _take_ this. Draco made a soft delighted sound and leaned closer.  
  
Their noses were bumping. Harry thought he was tasting pumpkin juice and something worse in Draco’s mouth, and wondered absently if he’d brushed his teeth yet today. Their breaths were warm. The whole _thing_ was warm. Harry moved restlessly, because the kiss was making him want to do something else, and whined in the back of his throat.  
  
Finally, Draco broke away and sucked in several long breaths. He looked as though someone had just handed him the world, and Harry, gazing at him in wonder, decided something. _That’s why you’d snog another boy. Because you want to see him look like that._  
  
“I love you, too,” said Draco. “I didn’t know if you knew that.”  
  
“I—think I could figure it out.” Harry licked his own lips this time, and caught himself reaching out to put a hand back on Draco’s shoulder. He flushed and started to take it back, but Draco caught it, grinned, and dragged him closer.  
  
“You can touch me if you want,” Draco said softly. “You can always touch me.” He managed to make the words sound more adult than Harry thought he could sound at the moment, and his voice was a little hoarse. Harry shifted again, embarrassed that he could feel an erection in his pants.  
  
“I—yeah.” Harry wished he knew better what to say, but everything he knew seemed to be deserting him tonight. He really hadn’t meant to tell Draco he loved him so soon, before he figured out what to do about it. But he reached out and put his hands on Draco’s hips and back and pulled him clumsily closer, because Draco was starting to frown a little, and Harry couldn’t stand to see him worry about _anything_.  
  
Their erections touched.   
  
Harry gasped and arched his back. Draco made a little noise which was not a laugh, because if it was a laugh Harry would have had to kill him, and then tried to nudge his hips forwards into Harry’s.  
  
Harry stepped back, though. He was breathing too fast, and he avoided Draco’s eyes as best he could. “I can’t,” he said. “Not—I mean, I’m not ready to watch you wank, or for you to watch me yank. I mean wank. _Wank_.” And then he was blushing again, because saying the word again and again just made it worse.  
  
Draco stared at him for a moment, but then the worried look disappeared from his face and he nodded. “All right, Harry,” he said. “But then I think I really do have to leave, because I can’t be near you like this and not touch you.”  
  
He kissed Harry again, like a flash of fire on his cheek, and slipped out of the room.  
  
Harry leaned against the wall the minute the door shut and reached into his pants. He would just have to hope that Draco had shut the door all the way and that no one else came down here this time of night and that no one was listening, because he wasn’t going to make it back to the common room like this.  
  
He gripped himself and jerked, and it was like the kiss that Draco had just given him: a flash of fire, heat and a feeling so intense that he half-jumped back from it even as he wanked, and then—  
  
And then—  
  
There was a splash of wetness across his fingers. Harry sagged back against the wall and choked a time or two, his hand still lazily moving.  
  
 _Damn. All right. That’s another good reason to have sex with a boy.  
  
Maybe it doesn’t have to be about having kids. _  
  
*  
  
Draco bit back a cry as he came. He would never have dared do this if Snape hadn’t still been in his office supervising a detention, but he hadn’t been able to wait any longer by the time he reached the professor’s rooms. He’d been in pain, and he’d held his robes up in front of him like a shield, and he must have looked ridiculous.  
  
Not that that mattered next to the pleasure making his body shudder.  
  
Or next to the relief that his feelings were returned, and the enormous smugness that he had managed to capture _Harry_ , of all people, the only one in the world whose love he cared about having.  
  
Draco flopped back into his bed and gave himself up to the pure joy of living.


	23. Maturity

  
_Chapter Twenty-Three—Maturity_  
  
“Is this consistent with what you know of Bellatrix’s fear spells, Severus?”  
  
Severus forced himself to ignore the fact that it was Dumbledore asking the question, and to pay strict attention to the white face and twisting hands of Seamus Finnigan. The boy had sat in the middle of his hospital bed since Severus arrived, refusing to look up. Now and then his fingers trembled; now and then his mouth opened in a soundless moan.   
  
“Consistent with what I know of fear spells in general,” Severus said at last, when he thought he had studied all of Finnigan’s separate symptoms—and, more to the point, made Dumbledore wait long enough. “With Bellatrix’s specifically? I could not say. The Dark Lord took some care to keep his followers’ capabilities concealed from his other followers.”  
  
Dumbledore sighed. “I feared you would say that.” He walked slowly forwards and sat down next to the bed that contained the Gryffindor boy, looking at him with a tenderness that made Severus have to look away. _He showed no such tenderness when Harry was the victim of the boy’s crimes.  
  
But then, I think he is baffled by strength, by people who do not need his help to recover every step of the way. Finnigan is helpless, and so the better charity case. _  
  
Severus folded his hands together inside his sleeves, so that the Headmaster should not see that his knuckles were white with rage.  
  
“Well,” said Dumbledore at last, looking up and straight into Severus’s eyes, “I would like to give him the chance to return to Gryffindor Tower. He may recuperate better in more familiar surroundings—”  
  
“No,” Severus said flatly.  
  
Dumbledore blinked as though he had never heard the negative before. “No?”  
  
“No.” From the corner of his eye, Severus could see Madam Pomfrey, who was measuring out healing potions into the tiny vials usually considered safe doses, roll her eyes at their childishness. He did not care. If someone was not Harry or Draco, he had discovered in the past few months, he had very little cause to care for their opinion. “I will not have him go free and perhaps harm Harry again. He will be healed of the fear spell before he goes near Gryffindor Tower.”  
  
“It is a long and painful process,” said Dumbledore. “And if you do not know much about Bellatrix’s fear spells specifically—”  
  
“It requires a potion that I have on hand,” Severus went on, “a good deal of magical strength—which I have—and the presence of one he was commanded to hurt or betray. Harry will want to be here.”  
  
“When he has so much to endure already,” Dumbledore said, opening his eyes very wide, “you would ask him to endure this?”  
  
Severus gave him a look of scorn, silently reminding Dumbledore that Harry would have had to endure much less if not for the Headmaster’s abdication of responsibility. And still Dumbledore could not face the black crow of his judgment, because he turned away. Severus concealed a smile and said, “It is not primarily for Finnigan that I demand it. It is for the cause of sparing Harry pain in the future. I will _not_ let him lie awake wondering whether this is the night that his roommate attacks him again. If you send Finnigan back unhealed, then you must get used to Harry’s being removed from Gryffindor Tower to the dungeons.”  
  
Very slowly, Dumbledore’s head bent, as though someone were pushing down on his neck from behind. “As you will, Severus,” he whispered. “But it will be hard on Mr. Finnigan’s mind and morale as well as Harry’s.”  
  
Severus raised an eyebrow. “You presume much, if you think the Finnigan boy an object of compassion for me.”  
  
*  
  
Harry tried not to squirm as he stood at Snape’s side and watched Seamus in the bed, staring straight ahead of him with his hands constantly twisting in his lap. He looked awful. His face was white like parchment, and his eyes were as blank as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. Harry remembered what that felt like.  
  
Snape was already holding up a glass vial filled with bright red potion. Harry shuddered. It smelled like blood as well as looked like it, and he braced himself to watch as Snape tipped the vial down Seamus’s throat. Seamus let him. He’d basically been letting anyone do anything they wanted with him since he came to the hospital wing.  
  
Draco squeezed his hand. Harry looked at him sideways and received Draco’s sharp, tender smile. It calmed Harry down and made him think entirely inappropriate things both at the same time, so that in the end he had to turn away and study Seamus again.  
  
Seamus had swallowed the last of the potion, and for a few moments he sat there, still staring straight ahead. There were red drops on his lips. It made him look like a vampire. Harry shuddered again, and then told himself he’d faced a lot worse things, like Voldemort, and feeling nervous around Seamus was silly.  
  
And then Seamus leaped off the bed, screaming, and rushed at him with his hands out, ready to strangle him.  
  
Harry reacted instinctively, shoving Draco behind him and drawing his wand. The Shield Charm he cast repelled Seamus with a thud, and Seamus reeled around for a minute, eyes unfocused, before he came in again. Meanwhile, Snape had snarled something that didn’t sound like Latin, and a transparent coil wrapped about Seamus’s ankles, forming in moments into a crystalline chain.  
  
Seamus crashed to the ground. Harry stared at him, panting.   
  
Draco shoved him in the back. “You’re hurting my arm,” he grumbled into Harry’s ear.  
  
“Oh, sorry,” Harry said numbly, and let go. He hadn’t even realized his fingers were digging into Draco’s arm near the shoulder. He stared at Seamus and then looked up at Snape, who’d taken several steps forwards. “Was that supposed to happen, after the potion?” he asked.  
  
“It was not,” said Snape, and gave him a dark look that it took Harry a minute to understand. Snape thought he should have known that because he thought Harry should trust Snape never to endanger him. Harry lifted his chin and scowled back, and Snape grunted under his breath and turned away. “But when the fear spell has been particularly strong and lasted a particularly long time, it may. And from what the fool has said, I suspect that Bellatrix has been influencing him through his dreams—another rare but not unknown complicating factor.”  
  
Harry winced. “I had nightmares, too,” he muttered, when Draco stepped around him and stared disbelievingly into his face. “I know what it’s like.”  
  
“You had those nightmares because Voldemort possessed you, and anyway, you still didn’t charge your roommates and try to curse them.” Draco looped an arm around Harry’s shoulders and squeezed tight.  
  
“But I know what bad dreams are like,” said Harry, a bit annoyed that they were so intent on stopping him sympathizing with Seamus. He craned his neck so that he could watch Snape crouching over his former friend. Snape’s chanting was low and steady, and his wand traced red crosses and lavender circles in the air in front of him. “I can feel sorry for him if I want.”  
  
“He’s not worth it,” Draco said flatly.  
  
“Yes, he is.” Harry scowled at Draco this time. He knew Draco was in love with him and wanted to protect him, but that didn’t mean he could control Harry’s emotions.  
  
“Why don’t you spend your time caring about people who actually matter?” Draco asked, with a hint of a whine in his voice. “Me, for example.”  
  
“But I do care about you,” Harry said, keeping his voice low, because Snape’s chanting was growing louder and Harry didn’t think he would like to be interrupted. “Of _course_ I do.” He reached up and touched Draco’s cheek, staring into his eyes in puzzlement. “Why would it make you think I don’t just because I’m worried about Seamus? I said I know what it’s like to have bad dreams. That’s all. With you—Draco, with _you_ I know what it’s like to compete at Quidditch, and battle Dementors, and practice Occlumency and, um, and kiss.” He knew his face was bright red, but he couldn’t help it; it was going to be bright red when he talked about kissing for a while. “We share so much more.”  
  
Draco let his shoulders slump, suddenly, as if he were letting some weight fall off them, and nodded. Then he moved closer to Harry and turned his head so that his cheek rested against Harry’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I just really don’t think he deserves it.”  
  
“I know.” Harry touched Draco’s hair and made a mental promise not to show sympathy for Seamus too openly in the future, if this was going to be Draco’s reaction—or at least not to do it around him. He thought Draco’s comfort was more important than speaking a few kind words about the boy who had burned his things.  
  
Snape’s voice came to him then, speaking sternly. “Mister Finnigan, what do you remember?”  
  
Harry looked over Draco’s shoulder. Seamus had a hand against his forehead and was blinking so fast that he looked like he was trying not to go blind. Then he said, “I—I think I remember attacking Harry. And I remember being so afraid of what would happen if I didn’t. Like someone was choking me. Like someone was going to burn all my skin off if I didn’t. And whenever I went to sleep, it got worse. I think.” He shook his head a little. “It’s confusing.”  
  
“Do you feel any impulse to attack Mister Potter now?” Harry wondered if he was the only one who noticed Snape’s hand tightening on his wand as he asked the question.  
  
“No, of course not!” Seamus leaped to his feet, eyes wide, and turned around until he saw Harry. “Harry, mate,” he said, with his voice full of the sadness Harry had wanted to hear four years ago, “can you forgive me?”  
  
“Of course!” Harry stepped forwards and clasped Seamus’s hand, ignoring Draco’s scowl and the cautious way Snape’s eyes narrowed. Seamus didn’t have a wand, and Snape had investigated his magical capabilities and decided that he couldn’t use wandless magic. He’d been in the hospital wing long enough for them to discover any magical weapon or poison smeared on his hands. So there was nothing to worry about. “You’ve been frightened for a long time. It’s hard to keep from doing stupid things when you’re frightened.”  
  
Seamus beamed at him and shook his hand one more time before letting it go. “Can I go back to Gryffindor Tower now?” he asked, turning to Professor Snape. A moment later, he looked away as if he thought that he’d be better off asking the question of the wall. Harry hid a chuckle. There were times he’d felt like that himself when confronting Snape.  
  
“The Headmaster will want to see you first,” Snape said stiffly. “After all, you did attack a fellow student in the school.”  
  
Seamus sighed. “I know.” And then he turned around and trotted out of the hospital wing towards the Headmaster’s office.  
  
Harry blinked and let out a cautious little breath. “That’s it?” he asked. “I hope that’s it.”  
  
“I will be keeping a close eye on the boy,” Snape said, his eyes as cold and hard as Aunt Petunia’s eyes used to be when Harry asked for food.  
  
“Someone should,” Draco said, and folded his arms. “Since Dumbledore will probably just pat him on the head and give him a sweet.”  
  
Harry sighed, but didn’t try to argue. He reckoned he would feel the same way if Seamus had attacked Draco.  
  
*  
  
“ _Nothing_.”  
  
Draco watched in concern as Harry shoved yet another book away from him across the table and then put a hand over his forehead, rubbing it. They’d been in the library for several hours trying to research guardian spirits, basilisk venom, and the other things that Draco’s book insisted had a tenuous connection to Horcruxes, so it was possible Harry might have a headache. But Draco didn’t like the spot his hand was rubbing, right over his scar.   
  
“Harry? Is your scar burning again?”  
  
Harry shook his head, his eyes fixed broodingly on the table. “I just wish we’d found _something_ ,” he said, and exhaled hard. “How am I supposed to stop being a Horcrux if we don’t know how to destroy Horcruxes?”  
  
“Keep your voice down,” Draco said instinctively, even though Madam Pince was at the front of the library and all the students near them had gone to bed some time ago. “We don’t want anyone to hear—”  
  
“I know, I _know_.” Harry jumped to his feet and practically ran around the table, prying impatiently at Draco’s shoulder. “But I’m tired of being careful and judging everything I say. I want to do something else. Come with me?” He tilted his head and stared at Draco as if he thought it would take a lot of begging and pleading. Draco, of course, was ready to come with him the minute he saw that look.  
  
“All right,” he said, and began to put books away. Harry sighed, drew his wand, and spelled all the books roughly onto the shelves. Draco rolled his eyes as he heard their spines creaking and watched at least a few pages get bent. “It’ll be your fault if the books are too tattered to find what we need in them tomorrow,” he complained in a whisper.  
  
“I don’t bloody care right at the moment,” Harry snapped, jigging around the room the way Pansy had when she’d been hit with a Bladder-Shrinking Curse. “Come _on_ , Draco.” And he whirled and ran out of the library.  
  
Draco ran after him, concerned. In a mood like this, he wouldn’t put it past Harry to go dashing into the Forbidden Forest or something equally stupid.  
  
Instead, though, Harry led Draco at a punishing pace up two flights of stairs and then into a dark corridor with heavy alcoves in the walls—used for Potions storage a long time ago, Draco thought, when they didn’t teach it in the dungeons. And then he whirled around again and pushed Draco into one of the alcoves. Draco grunted as his head hit the wall, hard.  
  
“Harry, wh—”  
  
He didn’t get further than that because Harry was kissing him, insistently enough that he almost choked. Draco gasped and wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck, guiding him as well as possible. Harry growled as if he hated Draco’s trying to control him in any way and kissed harder.  
  
Draco leaned back, arranged himself in a slightly steadier position between Harry’s body and the wall so he wouldn’t fall over, and gave in. He and Harry had exchanged some kisses in the last few weeks, as they tried to figure out how to locate and destroy Horcruxes, but they’d still sneaked off on their own to wank. This time, Draco thought, as Harry plunged his hand impatiently into Draco’s trousers, that wasn’t going to happen.  
  
Harry didn’t really know what he was doing; that was obvious from the way he fumbled around, nails scraping at Draco’s erection in a way that made Draco shove his hips forwards helplessly. But he was determined to learn, and a moment later Draco was gasping and clinging to Harry as if he wanted to break his back. Pleasure welled through him in long separate rushes like the trails of fireworks, and his eyes were closed hard enough that he could see sparks of purple and green crossing in front of him.  
  
And then he came, with a squeak and a moan, for the first time in front of someone else.   
  
Harry sounded smug when he said, “Well, that was simple.” Then he tugged at Draco’s hair; Draco had half-fallen so that his head was resting on Harry’s shoulder. “Come on, you great git, no going to sleep without returning the favor.”  
  
Draco blinked, licked his lips, stood up, and gently cupped the front of Harry’s robes in response. Harry blinked back and gasped, his mouth dropping open as if he thought that Draco’s touch should feel different.  
  
Partially in revenge for Harry’s smugness, Draco kept his touches light and teasing for five minutes, until Harry was saying his name over and over again under his breath like the sound of a hammer pounding. He hoped Harry wouldn’t notice how much his hand was shaking, or realize that Draco needed to go slowly for his own sake. Finally touching Harry’s flesh made Draco shudder and thrust one thigh between Harry’s.  
  
He’d been missing this, needing it, for years, he thought, as he sucked on Harry’s neck and ground against him and stroked him, all at the same time. Or maybe it was just the natural end of all the feelings he’d had for Harry from the first time they really became friends—  
  
Harry sounded like a strangled cat when he came. Draco would have laughed, except that the warmth and wetness on his hand made his mouth feel thick with saliva. He swallowed, listened to Harry’s panting for a moment, and then said, “Be careful, or Mrs. Norris is going to mistake that as a mating call.”  
  
Harry shoved him at that, hard, but Draco thought it was worth it. Especially because his hand shot sideways and smeared Harry’s robes with a white stain, and because a moment later Harry was kissing him again.  
  
*  
  
“What is _she_ doing here?”  
  
Harry turned his head at Ron’s startled exclamation, and then shot to his feet. He’d never seen the woman striding through the doors of the Great Hall, but he knew who she was as instantly as Ron did. There was only one person she could be, when she looked so much like Draco.  
  
And, for some reason, Narcissa Malfoy was looking at and walking towards him instead of her son.  
  
Harry lifted his head high, swallowed, and stepped out from behind the Gryffindor table. He didn’t know exactly what was about to happen next, but he knew it must be important, or she wouldn’t be here.  
  
Narcissa came to a stop in front of him and stood staring at him for a moment. Harry looked back and tried to appear cool and collected and calm, when he knew he was none of those things. Narcissa wore a set of white robes that rustled and swished around her like the sound of falling snow, and looked as if they were made of silk. A single blue gem shone at her throat, hanging off a silver necklace that Aunt Petunia would have killed someone to own. Harry had not the slightest idea what she wanted, and so not the slightest idea what he should do next.  
  
He could see Snape starting to his feet, and Dumbledore standing, and Draco walking quickly around the Slytherin table. But none of them got there before Narcissa abruptly knelt at his feet. Harry was glad he had the Gryffindor table behind him, so he wouldn’t fall down in shock.  
  
“Mr. Potter,” Narcissa said, her voice calm and clear and as cool as Harry wanted to be, “I have given up my allegiance to my husband, and any allegiance that I might once have had to the Dark Lord. In token of this, I bring you something which you need, and which my husband would be very much alarmed if he knew you had.” And she drew something gold and glittering out of an inner robe pocket—Harry was glad she took it from that and not her breasts—and held it out to him.  
  
Harry winced and tried to back away. It was just a golden locket on a chain, but he could feel heat beating out from it, and there was a dark shimmer of power around it that reminded him instantly of the diary. A moment later, his scar started burning. He licked his lips, the taste of oil and blood in his mouth.  
  
“In return,” Narcissa said, gazing serenely into his eyes as if she did this every day of the month, “I request your personal protection, and your promise that I will come to no harm under that protection, either from my ‘kind’ or yours.” Her lips moved in a small smile. Harry had no idea what she found funny about the situation. Probably the expression on his face. He knew his jaw had dropped open.  
  
“I—all right, yes,” Harry said, because he knew the locket was a Horcrux, and because he would never refuse Draco’s _mother_ , of all people, his protection. Narcissa’s smile deepened.  
  
“Harry!”  
  
Harry turned around, startled. Dumbledore had said his name from right beside him, and Harry hadn’t known he could get to the front of the Hall from the head table that quickly. Not quickly enough to prevent Harry from giving his protection to Narcissa, of course. Harry straightened his spine defiantly. If it was something Dumbledore didn’t want him to do, that almost _obliged_ him to do it, didn’t it?  
  
“You have no idea what is involved in the issue of personal protection,” Dumbledore said tightly, looking at Narcissa, who had stood up and was dangling the locket from her fingers, “or what ritual she has invoked.”  
  
“Invoked? It would take more than words to invoke the ritual you are thinking of, Headmaster.” Narcissa brushed slowly at her robes with one hand, as if she were removing dust—Harry was sure it was entirely imaginary dust, with the way she looked—and raised an eyebrow at Dumbledore. “I have only asked Mr. Potter for a promise, a promise he has given me. And why should I not appeal to him? He is the real leader of the war.”  
  
 _And she did it in public, too_ , Harry thought, glancing around the Great Hall. It was the middle of dinner, and every single student in the school was staring in fascination. _She wanted to make sure no one could lie about it or deny it later, I’ll bet. Which Dumbledore might do._   
  
It felt—strange—having that kind of insight. Harry knew he wouldn’t even have thought about Narcissa’s motives for doing this in public a year ago, or he would have thought she was trying to embarrass him. He smiled a little. _Snape and Draco are rubbing off on me._  
  
“Mother, are you all right?”  
  
Draco was beside them now, and his hands were twitching at his sides, as if he wanted to hug his mother but didn’t quite dare. Harry put a hand on his shoulder, and Draco relaxed with a slight sigh. Narcissa’s hand landed on Draco’s other shoulder. Then she looked into his eyes for a long moment before she spoke, as if that answer depended on him.  
  
 _Or as if she’s deciding what he wants to hear_ , Harry thought, and frowned a little. He didn’t even know if his perceptions were right yet, and he almost wished he could stop having them until he knew.  
  
“I am well,” Narcissa said lowly. “Something happened that I must tell you about in more detail when we are alone.” She glanced sideways at Dumbledore. “And after the Headmaster has accepted my plea for sanctuary. I have appealed to Mr. Potter, but the school is still his.”  
  
Dumbledore clamped his lips together, his nostrils flaring. “I could make you leave,” he said, his voice as soft as Narcissa’s had been. “No one, knowing who your husband is and what he has done, would blame me.”  
  
“You’d make her leave?” Harry asked, outraged, and stepped around Draco so he could confront Dumbledore. “With the Dark Lord and Lucius hunting her? If you make her leave, I’ll leave too.”  
  
There was a slight choking noise from behind him, but Harry couldn’t tell who had made it. Maybe Snape, who was hovering there too, now. He didn’t care, though. He also didn’t care about the efforts he’d been making to get along with Dumbledore and the few cautious talks they’d had about Horcruxes. This was more important, and not something Harry could be calm about. He glared at the Headmaster as hard as he could and finally saw him turn away.  
  
“If you want it to happen, Harry, of course it must,” Dumbledore said in a defeated voice.  
  
Harry clenched his hands behind his back. Dumbledore was just trying to make him feel guilty, and this time, it wouldn’t work. He turned away and smiled at Narcissa. “I think you and Draco should go and talk privately in his rooms,” he said. “Professor Snape’s rooms, I mean.” Dumbledore made a tsking sound, but Harry didn’t know why. If the Slytherins didn’t know Draco was staying in Snape’s rooms by now, they were blind. “You probably have a lot to say to him.”  
  
Narcissa extended the locket again. “Don’t you want to take this, Mr. Potter?”  
  
Harry flinched, but forced himself to accept the locket. He knew that Dumbledore was going to drag him to his office to yell at him, and he might as well take the Horcrux with him so that Dumbledore could secure it with the ring, or rather the stone on the ring. “Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said, and faced Dumbledore. Draco was lingering, but Harry gave him a tiny shove in the direction of his mother, and he went. “All right,” he said to Dumbledore, “I’m ready.”  
  
The Headmaster nodded and started out of the room, but paused when he noticed Snape walking along with them. “I thought you might wish to superintend Mrs. Malfoy’s arrival in your rooms, my dear boy,” he said, with a scraping undertone of irritation that made Harry hide a laugh in his sleeve.  
  
“Draco knows best what his mother will require,” Snape said calmly. “I intend to supervise Mr. Potter, instead.”  
  
Dumbledore looked for a moment as if he were going to snap and forbid Snape to come, but Snape stared at him with an arrogant smile curving the corner of his lips, and Harry knew Dumbledore was deciding he would probably fail if he tried to say that. So he turned away with an injured air and said, “Very well, Severus. As you will.”  
  
Snape was no more affected by the attempt to guilt him than Harry had been, and kept on walking. Harry couldn’t help smiling a little at him, despite the fact that he still didn’t really trust him, and Snape nodded back.  
  
*  
  
“There is no easy way to say this, Draco.”  
  
“It wasn’t easy to watch you walk into the Great Hall and wonder why you’d come here, either.” Draco would ordinarily have tried to be a bit more subtle with his mother, but he was badly shaken. He recognized the white robes as the most expensive she owned, and when he got close enough, he’d been able to see the priceless sapphire that she never wore except on the most fashionable occasions. He knew _something_ was badly wrong, but not what, yet, and he wished his mother would stop putting off telling him.  
  
Narcissa gave him a faint smile and sat up straight. Until that moment, she’d huddled on the couch in Draco’s main room, sipping at a bit of wine Draco had got her—Draco and Professor Snape understood each other well—and staring into the glass. Draco approved. She should look tall and proud, not crushed, no matter what happened to her.  
  
“Lucius tried to kill me,” Narcissa said, her voice sharp and gentle at the same time, the way Draco sometimes spoke to Harry. “It is Halloween tonight, and that is a guarantee of certain kinds of power. He would have used me as a blood and sexual sacrifice in order to restore himself to the favor of the Dark Lord.”  
  
Draco swallowed. He wanted to say several things, but all of them would have sounded stupid. He looked once more at the sapphire at his mother’s throat, and then down at her fingers. Rings shone there that he hadn’t seen more than once or twice, on a few precious occasions when his mother showed him the jewels that would become his inheritance. “You brought enough to be comfortable?” he asked, because he could say it in an even tone.  
  
“More than comfortable.” Narcissa’s smile widened. “And since I will be staying in Hogwarts for the time being, under Mr. Potter’s personal protection, I need not even pay for my maintenance.” She sounded cheerful about it.  
  
Draco swallowed again, and then said, “I didn’t know Father had lost the Dark Lord’s favor.”  
  
“It is not easy to hold onto such a thing,” Narcissa said idly, “any more than it is to cling to a sharp knife which cuts one’s fingers and renders one’s grip slippery with blood. The Dark Lord has been displeased since Lucius lost you to Potter. And then Lucius failed a mission.”  
  
Draco felt a momentary tightness in his throat. He had been the cause of his mother almost being murdered…  
  
But no. That was the way Harry would think. Draco himself was not at home to any unnecessary guilt. This was Lucius’s fault from beginning to end. He drew himself up and said, “Was he going to make you into a slave to the Dark Lord? What was the sacrifice for?”  
  
“It had something to do with the locket that the Dark Lord had entrusted to Lucius,” said Narcissa. “A shadow would sometimes appear above the locket, a spirit or a ghost. I saw Lucius talking to it on occasion. Apparently the sacrifice was needed to allow the spirit to become stronger.”  
  
Draco shuddered. The thought of his mother dying to power a Horcrux was…not pleasant.  
  
“Will Father find out you’ve taken the locket?” he asked sharply.  
  
Narcissa flicked her fingers. “Eventually. But the idea of the sacrifice was his own, and I doubt he will wish to reveal to his Lord that his wife escaped it. I have left a copy of the locket in the original’s place. That will enable Lucius to avoid detection for a time—assuming the Dark Lord does not ask him for the locket tomorrow.” She took in enough air to release her breath in a heavy sigh. “Discovering that one’s husband wishes to kill one is…disconcerting,” she murmured.  
  
Draco stood up, walked over to her, and put his arms around her shoulders at last. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into her ear. “I’m sorry you lost him.”  
  
“Lucius condemned himself.”  
  
His mother’s voice was light and dry, but Draco saw the way her hand pinched her wineglass. He turned his head, kissing her lightly behind the ear.  
  
*  
  
Harry, Severus saw, was readier for his confrontation with the Headmaster than Severus could have dreamed.  
  
The moment they came into the office, Harry stepped up to Dumbledore’s desk. He took his place halfway between the chairs in front of it, as if showing that he wouldn’t sit in either one of them. Then he folded his arms, leaned one elbow on the nearest chair arm, and smiled at Dumbledore without any humor. His body was angled, Severus realized after a moment’s intense study, between Severus himself and the desk, as if he would use it to block any flying curses Dumbledore took a fancy to unleash.  
  
 _Still an idiot, trying to defend himself and others that way_ , Severus thought in irritation, and had to ignore how his chest warmed at the thought of the boy considering him worthy to defend. _He should use curses. What else have I been teaching him for?_  
  
“You must understand, Harry,” Dumbledore said, his voice low and stern, “what it means that you have offered Mrs. Malfoy your protection.”  
  
“I understand what it means,” Harry said. “That I won’t let her be hurt, or killed, or bothered by anyone in the Order of the Phoenix or any of the Death Eaters.” He paused for a moment, as though he thought he might have forgotten something, and then added, “And to make sure that happens, I have to remain in the same place as she is. So you can forget about driving her out or ‘encouraging’ her to leave or creating some distraction that would make her feel she had to go after it. I’ll just leave in search of her, and then I’ll probably get killed, and I don’t think you want that. Unless you think I have to die anyway to get rid of the Horcrux in me.”  
  
Dumbledore caught a harsh breath. Severus stepped up quickly, so that he could see the full expression on Harry’s face. He wasn’t surprised to see that Harry was grinding his teeth, or that his eyes glittered with a sharp expression far too close to hatred. Severus put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, much as Narcissa had put one on Draco’s. Harry made an abrupt little movement, as if he intended to throw off the touch, then relaxed with a tiny tetchy twitch of his head and let it remain.  
  
“I—have considered that course of action sometimes necessary, dear boy,” Dumbledore whispered at last. “No one hopes more sincerely than I that it need not come to pass.”  
  
Harry snorted. “I think Draco hopes more sincerely than you. Since you’re still willing to sacrifice me if you have to, and him not at all.”  
  
Severus squeezed down, both to remind Harry that there was someone else in the room who would not like to see him die merely to remove the Horcrux, and because there was an underlying wild despair in Harry’s voice. _He suggested a thought not new to him. Let him brood on the subject long enough, and he may convince himself he needs to die for the greater good._   
  
“You need to understand something, Headmaster,” Harry went on forcefully. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get rid of Voldemort. But you need to stop spinning around me and trying to manipulate me so I’ll do it _your_ way. I think you care more about making me do it like that than you care about Voldemort dying.” Severus jerked a little himself at that statement; he had not thought it possible, but perhaps it was, considering the way Dumbledore’s face paled at the accusation. “So stop opposing me on minor things, like having Mrs. Malfoy stay here. I’ll work better on the Horcruxes if she’s safe, because that way Draco won’t worry about her and I won’t be worrying about Draco. Just _stop_ thinking that because you distrust her means I have to. All right?”  
  
Dumbledore lowered his eyes and waited long moments before he nodded. Severus watched him sardonically. He doubted the Headmaster was really convinced; even now he was perhaps trying to think of new arguments to persuade Harry. But he was also fair-minded enough, when he allowed himself to be, to entertain such words, and so the chance that he might convince himself against his will was greater.  
  
“All right.” Harry relaxed suddenly and dropped the locket he held on the Headmaster’s desk. “Put that with the stone on the ring; it’s another of them.”  
  
Dumbledore made a small exclamation and picked up the golden thing, holding it in front of his eyes. “I see,” he murmured, after some moments’ detailed examination of it. “Yes, I see. I believe that I might know how to destroy this one.”  
  
Harry’s eyes narrowed in what looked like confusion, but he turned around and left the office with a sharp snap of his robes. Severus trailed behind him in silent amusement. Harry had almost certainly picked up that gesture from him, whether he wished it to happen or not.  
  
“Sir? What are you still doing here?”   
  
Severus blinked for a moment, then smirked. Harry sounded puzzled. Severus would enjoy the opportunity to turn his puzzlement back on him. “I believe there is only one way down from the Headmaster’s office, and so I am obliged to take the same moving staircase as you,” he said. He was on the step above the boy, being rotated down in the same ridiculous manner that Albus had always used to send visitors away.  
  
“I know that,” Harry snapped, though from the way he blushed, Severus didn’t think he had until he was reminded. “I mean, why are you still with me? You didn’t have to come, you know, and you didn’t have to stay as silent as you did.” He leaned one shoulder on the wall of the staircase, letting it scrape along, and surveyed Severus skeptically.  
  
“I support you,” Severus said softly. “Including in your dealings with Dumbledore. I thought the Headmaster might not know that, and I determined to let him remain in ignorance no longer.”  
  
Harry made a faint exasperated noise. “But you didn’t _have_ to,” he said. “It’s a lot to do for someone who doesn’t even trust you.”  
  
“I know that,” said Severus, as they reached the bottom of the staircase and ceased their movement. “But I chose to.”  
  
Harry stared at him in silence, eyes as large as Lily’s had once looked over the one Charms exam she had ever failed. Severus swallowed painfully, but resisted the temptation to say something. Lily was dead, and the eyes he looked at belonged to her son. He would not allow himself the luxury of forgetting that, though he sometimes thought Harry would like him to.  
  
Then Harry turned and left him without a word. Severus offered a small, ironic bow in the direction of his back and retired to his private rooms, there to make provisions for the arrival of Narcissa Malfoy.  
  
He was not surprised she had come to them, though he did not yet know the story of her parting from Lucius. Narcissa might love her son, she might love her husband, but those affections shone strong and clear next to her love for the winning side.  
  
*  
  
 _Things_ , Harry thought, _are going really well._  
  
And they were, despite the fact that he had holes in his memory still and his dueling lessons with Snape were still tense and his heart ached whenever Sirius came for a visit and Harry had to look at the wounds he had caused. There were so many other things that were going well that Harry could sometimes forget about those disappointments when he concentrated.  
  
Mrs. Malfoy was settling in. She hadn’t told Harry what had made her leave Malfoy Manor, but from the way Draco sometimes muttered about his father, Harry didn’t think it was because she was secretly serving Voldemort and wanted to spy on them. He didn’t need to know the exact reason. Not if Draco trusted his mother (which he did) and didn’t want to talk about that reason to Harry. Harry’s trust in Draco was so deep he didn’t have words to put around it.  
  
Harry had beat Draco to the Snitch in the Slytherin-Gryffindor match in early November, but unlike last year, that didn’t cause Draco to scream at him. He went into a fit of the sulks instead, disappeared for a few hours, and then came back with flushed cheeks and a mouthful of insults against Gryffindors. Harry suspected he’d been with his mother and Professor Snape. Aside from having to hold Ron back from pounding Draco to a pulp, he was content.  
  
Dumbledore had talked with him several more times about Horcruxes, and seemed to believe he was on the way to destroying the locket. Harry had wondered why he was so anxious to handle the locket first, instead of the stone in the ring, but kept his peace. He didn’t think Dumbledore was up to sinister things, just stupid ones. Harry had survived Dumbledore’s stupidity before.  
  
Seamus had apologized again and was now, though somewhat shy around Harry, better friends with him than he’d been for years. He didn’t flinch away when Harry entered a room; he sometimes talked to him about Quidditch, and even flung his arms around Harry and danced him madly about the room after the match with Slytherin. Harry was happy there.  
  
He could basically kiss and wank Draco whenever he wanted. Draco melted into it with an eagerness that made him feel smug. The Dursleys used to tell Harry was a useless little freak who would never be good at anything, but he was good at at least three things: Quidditch, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and bringing his boyfriend off.  
  
And then Harry walked into the Gryffindor common room one night to a chorus of muffled yelps and bumps, and found himself staring at Ron and Hermione staring at him from behind the couch. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong. Then he saw that Hermione had a lot of bare skin around her neck, and that Ron’s face was the same shade as his hair, and he shut his mouth and grinned.  
  
“Shut it, you,” Ron muttered, even though Harry already _had_. “We’re not—I mean, we were going to tell you we were dating, it just never came up—”  
  
“Right, right,” Harry said kindly, nodding. “Other things came up instead, right?”  
  
Ron beamed at him. Hermione, with a better understanding of nuance and innuendo, covered her eyes.  
  
Harry grinned at them all the way up the stairs, walking backwards on purpose so that he could. He didn’t really feel any compulsion to tell them about Draco. They’d find that out later, at a time when it wouldn’t be a stress to Draco or him, and in the meantime he’d enjoy their embarrassment.  
  
 _Times like these_ , he thought, as he fell into bed and grinned at the ceiling in turn, _it doesn’t seem to matter that I’m a Horcrux. I’m alive, and that’s what matters._  
  
*  
  
Draco looked around hesitantly, and swallowed. He was on the Quidditch pitch in the middle of a chill December morning, and he needed to make sure, once again, that there was no one with him—no one in sight, no one able to spy on him and make him feel he had done wrong by coming here.  
  
Once again, there was no sign of any footprints in the snow but his own.  
  
At last, Draco relaxed and bent down to draw the silver bracelets he had spent all weekend working on out of his robe pockets. They shimmered and clinked at him, and Draco smiled. They looked cheap compared to three-quarters of the ornaments that his mother had brought with her into exile, but he was fonder of them than any of those. These didn’t have any jewels.  
  
They didn’t need them.  
  
Draco tilted his head back and spent a moment examining the sky above him. Yes, there were no branches in the way and it was a calm and utterly clear morning, the clouds traveling on a lazy wind. He shivered and renewed the Warming Charm on himself with an absent gesture of his wand.  
  
 _I have to stop putting this off._  
  
He clasped the silver bracelets onto his ankles with a series of loud ringing sounds. Two to each foot ought to be enough, he thought. More than that and he risked looking like a coward, which he would not do even when the only audience was himself; less than that and he was a fool.  
  
 _My mother did not raise a fool or a coward._  
  
His father might have, but Draco no longer considered his father family.  
  
Then, of course, with the anklets securely in place, he spent long moments licking his lips and shifting from foot to foot. At last he tucked his wand away in his boot, spread his arms, and whispered, “Up.”  
  
Most wizards flew on brooms or winged horses, or flying carpets before those were outlawed. There were spells that would allow a wizard’s body to take to the air, but they were dangerous and needed a lot of power. It was easier to stick to outside sources of flight.  
  
 _Unless_ , Draco thought, as the anklets sent tingles of sharp magic through his body, _you carry the outside sources on you_.  
  
He jolted into the air, his feet attempting to lead the way. Draco yelped, picturing himself turning upside down with his cloak flapping over his head; this was _not_ the way he was destined to set a new traveling trend. He hastily cast several balancing spells, centering them around his wrists and chest. He’d have to make several modifications to the anklets, he could see that now.  
  
And then the tingles calmed, and Draco found himself drifting several feet above the surface of the snow. When he moved his left foot, he drifted left. When he moved his right foot, he drifted right. And when he tried to walk straight ahead, his feet would let him do that, too.  
  
Draco laughed and spun around, holding his arms up. The motion made him skitter higher in the air, like a falling leaf in reverse, and when he caught his breath and started paying attention again, he was several dozen feet above the ground. He shivered uncomfortably as a small breeze worked its way past the Warming Charm. _I’ll have to study the spells they place on Quidditch gear and see how I can modify them to cover skin more precisely._  
  
“I knew you could do it.”  
  
Startled, Draco jerked around and then flailed for a moment, though he knew the anklets wouldn’t let him fall. And then he scowled and folded his arms when he realized Harry was hovering beside him on a broom, his eyes brilliant. Just being looked at that way was enough to make Draco blush harder than he would from a kiss. But he maintained his scowl. “How did you know I was coming out here?”  
  
“You betray a lot to someone who’s used to looking at you.” Harry sounded amused, but not as if he were laughing at Draco. Draco didn’t know what the difference was, but he knew that it existed, which calmed him down enough to listen. “The nervousness, the long silences, the way you talked about Quidditch suddenly all the time even when you weren’t at practices…I didn’t know exactly what you planned, but I knew it was something.” He looked at Draco’s anklets. “And it looks like it works pretty well.”  
  
He fell silent then, and Draco had to look away, because he’d never thought that someone would regard him with that much respect. Not after he’d failed to please his father.  
  
“I know Snape’s worried about your being left behind, in my shadow,” Harry whispered. “How could he think that? How could _anyone_ think that? You’re too driven. You would make it if I _tried_ to keep you back. You have all sorts of gifts I never will.”  
  
He sounded a little bewildered. Draco swallowed. _Not many people would make a statement like that without sounding jealous. Certainly the Weasel couldn’t._  
  
And then smugness crowded in. _I made the right choice as to who to fall in love with._  
  
He turned back to Harry, whose thoughts seemed to have drifted off. Draco cleared his throat, and at once Harry’s gaze snapped back to him. “All these accolades will, no doubt, be mine one day,” Draco said, trying to sound authoritative. “But there’s one I’d like right now.” He looked pointedly at Harry’s mouth.  
  
Harry smiled and leaned forwards, reaching out to curve one arm around Draco’s shoulders as Draco strode closer to meet him.  
  
This kiss was gentler than the others they’d shared, and just as awkward, and it brought a stinging fiery blush to Draco’s cheeks again, because Harry kissed the same way he had looked at Draco.  
  
But it was also the kind of kiss Draco thought he could stand to have other people see, someday.


	24. Secrets

  
He woke sweating.  
  
Severus opened his eyes, and then shut them again. The sight of the room around him made him ill. He recognized it, of course; he would always recognize it, no matter how many years he had been away. He drew the blanket closer to him with trembling fingers, his breath coming in gasps. His skin was cold and clammy when he touched it with one hand.  
  
On the other side of the room, his mother lay dying.  
  
The rational part of Severus's mind wondered how that could have happened, because the last thing he remembered was lying in his own bedroom and staring at the ceiling, waiting to fall asleep. But he nevertheless knew it was true. He could hear the slight rattle of his mother's breath as the disease in her lungs extended its grip.  
  
And then she whispered his name.  
  
Severus lay still, old fear and old sorrow running over him like powdery dried blood poured from a bucket. He wanted to vomit, which was the first time in years, given the tortures he had endured and seen and practiced under the Dark Lord's rule. His breathing was so loud that it should have overwhelmed the sound of his mother's.  
  
But it didn't. And she kept calling his name, sometimes plaintive, sometimes piercing, always soft.  
  
“Severus. Severus. Severus. Severus.”  
  
And on and on like that it went, always repeated, never varying enough to allow his thoughts to stray to something else. Still Severus panted like a dog, and the sweat crept out on his skin like the creeping of maggots.   
  
The fear washed over him and drowned him.  
  
Once, he had feared nothing but betraying Lily. Then, he had feared nothing but death with his wrongs still not made up for. Then, he had feared disappointing Dumbledore, and then he had feared losing Harry’s trust.  
  
This emotion was like none of those. It clung like tar. It clawed like a bear. It made Severus heavy with misery, and he didn’t, at last, notice that his mother’s voice had stopped until he opened his eyes.  
  
He was lying in his own bed in the dungeons again, and, when he cast a _Tempus_ Charm, it seemed that no time had gone by at all. He shuddered and wiped his mouth, wondering what had happened.  
  
A dream, he decided at last. It had to be. This was close to the time of year when his mother had died. Yes, it was a dream, and nothing more. He lay back against the pillow and force himself to close his eyes.  
  
Three hours later, he was still awake, listening for the whisper of her voice.  
  
*  
  
“Yes, I have discovered how to destroy the Horcrux.” Dumbledore suspended the locket above his head for a moment and frowned at it. Harry was grateful that at least the man had understandable emotional reactions to _something_. “It is dangerous, but we can accomplish it relatively easily.”  
  
“How can it be both?” Harry winced a little as the question came out of his mouth. It was the kind he wouldn’t have asked last year.  
  
 _But last year, you didn’t have Draco to think of, and you didn’t think that much of your friends._  
  
“It is dangerous, because it involves dangerous objects.” Dumbledore put the locket on the desk in front of him and stroked the chain for a moment. Harry hid a shudder. He supposed Dumbledore must have touched Darker magical objects in his lifetime and that was the reason he seemed comfortable touching this one, but Harry would never be comfortable. The diary had been bad enough, and he remembered the sense of oil and blood that he’d got from the locket when Mrs. Malfoy had brought it into the Great Hall. “But it is easy because we do not need to go far for those objects. You killed a basilisk in your second year, Harry, and no one ever did anything with the fangs. One of them, at least, should still remain in the Chamber of Secrets, and it will contain some unused and unaltered poison.”  
  
Harry frowned and rubbed at his ear, thinking of the research he and Draco had been doing. “That’s not necessarily going to work,” he said. “There are also guardian spirits in the Horcruxes that we have to deal with.”  
  
“Oh, yes, I know that,” Dumbledore said calmly. “And that is what has occupied me for the past few days. I already knew that basilisk venom was an antidote to Horcruxes.” He smiled at Harry, but Harry didn’t know why; maybe there was some joke in the sentence that he’d missed. “But I have been researching spells to deal with the guardian spirits. And a modified Switching Charm is the best recourse.”  
  
“A Switching Charm,” Harry repeated.  
  
“Yes, my boy.” Dumbledore leaned forwards, his face grave again in the way that made Harry feel like he _had_ to pay attention, though how serious Dumbledore was any more he never knew. “Tom Riddle, or his spirit, performed a more complicated version of that when he tried to drain Ginny’s life-force into the diary. He switched his presence and hers. At first he was in the diary, full of Dark magic, and Ginny was outside, full of the spirit—or life, call it that—that he needed to survive. As she poured out her emotions into the diary, she poured her life into him, and her presence began fading. Tom began to appear in her place, gaining substance that would, in the end, have permitted him to exist independently. He gave her the Dark magic that was killing her when you found her in the Chamber of Secrets. Of course it’s somewhat hard to picture that, because it was not instantaneous. Ginny ‘faded’ over a long period of time. And instead of taking Tom’s place in the diary as a perfect Switching Charm would have required, she would have died, as humans do without their life. But that is the way to deal with a Horcrux’s guardian spirit. We must pull it outside its object without giving it a hold on our spirits, so that it is powerless, and inject something into the Horcrux in return that will destroy it from the inside out.”  
  
Harry nodded slowly. He thought he actually understood this, which made it different from most of the magical theory he’d learned. “How did you decide that, sir?”   
  
“By thorough investigation of some of the older texts that the library does not possess, but I do. I have yet to determine a way of resisting the spirit when it appears, so my research will continue.” Dumbledore touched his fingertips together as if he thought that his next words needed careful bracing. “I also conducted a careful search of young Miss Weasley’s memories. I recognized some of the sensations she experienced, having almost become a victim of a twisted Switching Charm myself.”  
  
Harry stared at him, then shook his head. “I don’t want anyone else hurt by this,” he said. “Did you ask her for her permission?”  
  
“Of course,” Dumbledore said, and he looked both sad and offended. “I had an untrustworthy mentor when I was learning Occlumency. I had no wish to tear through Miss Weasley’s mind as mine was torn through.”  
  
“Did you ask her for her permission?” Harry leaned forwards. “Or did you give her some speech about how this was good for me and for the war, and that she should do it if she wanted to help you, her House, and her friends?”  
  
Dumbledore flinched this time. His eyes grew both sadder and harder. “You cannot do everything, my boy,” he said. “You must learn to let others make the contributions they wish to make.”  
  
“And I will,” Harry said tersely. “Just as soon as I’m convinced those compromises are the ones they _want_ to make, and that they’re not emotionally blackmailed or guilted into making them.”  
  
Dumbledore opened both hands in a gesture that Harry recognized as one of helplessness. He wasn’t fooled. Dumbledore was only as helpless as other people allowed him to appear, through their own not paying attention to the situation. “I do not know what you want from me, my boy,” he said simply. “I have apologized. I have made mistakes, but I believe those can be forgiven. You have not forgiven me.”  
  
“I haven’t said this before, because we need to work together to win the war and to destroy the Horcruxes.” Harry stood, his eyes fixed on Dumbledore’s face. “But I don’t think I’ll ever really forgive you.”  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. He never looked away from Harry’s eyes, either. _In some ways, this would be easier if he was more afraid of me_ , Harry thought in anger. _This way, I never know if he’s actually changed his mind, or if he’s decided the consequences aren’t worth it and gone back to his old way of thinking._  
  
“What makes you great, and what the Dark Lord does not understand, is your ability to love,” Dumbledore whispered. “It is not very loving of you to refuse me your forgiveness, Harry.”  
  
Harry laughed, which startled him as much as it did Dumbledore, but he was better at hiding the shock. “And you didn’t act very loving towards me when you left me with the Dursleys,” he said. “Look, sir, do you really want to drag this into the open again? I’ll speak with Ginny, and if she says that you didn’t force her to give up her memories, then that’s fine. But I don’t want to listen to you lecture me about forgiving someone. You don’t get to do that when you committed so many of the crimes that you want forgiven in the first place.”  
  
“Crimes,” Dumbledore said, in a tone of voice that invited Harry to correct that to “mistakes.”  
  
 _How do I know these things? Just from watching Snape and Draco, I reckon_. Harry didn’t like it, though. Last year, he still wouldn’t have known what Dumbledore wanted him to say, because it would have been hard for him to sort out Dumbledore’s longing for sympathy from his own bad emotions. And even now, he sometimes thought it would be simpler if he could be an ignorant Gryffindor. Snape and Draco could do the watching; their perceptions would be more right than his.  
  
Now, though, they weren’t here, so he said, “I told you I wouldn’t bring this up again,” and changed the subject to one that he knew Dumbledore wouldn’t be expecting. “Why have you worked on ways to destroy the locket before the stone in the ring?”  
  
Dumbledore’s face changed rapidly in several directions, but Harry’s new ability to sense and have insights into people wouldn’t tell him what those changes meant. In the end, he shook his head. “The stone on the ring is harder to destroy,” he said.  
  
“Why?” Harry pressed. “What’s different about it? Is it possible to make a more powerful kind of Horcrux?”  
  
“Those are questions I can’t answer, Harry,” Dumbledore began, in a tone that Harry thought he meant to be soothing.  
  
“Can’t or won’t?”   
  
Dumbledore turned his head away.  
  
Harry turned, too, and left the office with a sigh. He knew that pressing Dumbledore wasn’t a good idea; they needed to work together for everyone’s sake. But he wished Dumbledore could see that there was a time to stop keeping secrets and stop acting stupid, and the time had come.  
  
He rode down the moving staircase to the gargoyle, and then turned in the direction of the hospital wing. Since so many of the students had gone home for Christmas holidays, Dumbledore had said that it was safe for Sirius to come and stay in the infirmary for a few days. Harry was hopeful that some of the exercises Madam Pomfrey had ordered him to do would help his twisted hand.  
  
A shadow whisked behind him. Harry turned around, his hand already on his wand.  
  
A moment later, he relaxed. He recognized the shadow. Professor Snape was walking away from him, down towards the dungeons.  
  
Harry thought about chasing him and asking if he’d come to see the Headmaster, or even telling him what Dumbledore had said about the Horcruxes. (Harry had just realized that Dumbledore had sent him away without telling him how to destroy the locket). But he was tired, and he wanted to see Sirius, and he still didn’t entirely trust Snape. So he headed on to the hospital wing, and the undemanding company of someone who loved him and didn’t always push him to be better than he was.  
  
*  
  
Christmas with his mother and Harry was _fun_.  
  
That surprised Draco, a little, because Christmas at the Manor was always so formal. His mother would insist that he open his presents as if they were treasures, down to the paper they were wrapped in, and spend a little time discussing and admiring each one, even if he didn’t like it. Then they would probably pause for a conversation that his father wanted to have with his mother on some point of business. And then his mother would open a present. And then one of the house-elves would bring in tea or brightly decorated biscuits. And only then would Narcissa allow Draco to open another gift.  
  
But Harry tore into his gifts with enthusiasm, cuddling the Weasley jumper and laughing at the boring book that Granger gave him ( _101 Ways to Finish your Homework on Time_ ) and noisily enjoying himself with the box of Chocolate Frogs that were a present from Weasley’s sister. And Narcissa sat back and smiled the entire time. So _what_ if the smile looked like a glint of light on an ice sculpture? Draco was too busy enjoying the ability to be a kid for once.  
  
And he was nervously anticipating the moment when Harry would open _his_ gift, instead of anticipating his own.  
  
Finally Harry reached the large blue-silver box, and rattled it back and forth with a look of curiosity. Draco winced. He agreed with his mother that that was a barbaric habit. What if he’d got Harry something fragile, and it broke? He hadn’t, but it was the principle of the thing.  
  
This time, Harry couldn’t tell what it was from the shaking, so he shrugged and ripped open the paper with a two-handed motion. Draco thought he saw his mother flinch, but if she did, she hid it well, because the next moment her face wore a polite, interested smile again.  
  
And then Harry was lifting Draco’s gift from the blankets he had packed the box with, and turning an astonished, soft gaze on him.  
  
Draco allowed himself to preen under Harry’s gaze, because he knew he had a right to be proud. The watch had been in the Malfoy family for years, but most of Draco’s recent ancestors hadn’t carried it; they found it too awkward. The watch was made of a warm metal that looked like silver but would grow warm to the human touch and stay warm hours later. And it was big, and it _did_ have to be wound up now and then, but Draco had given it to Harry anyway, because it had the Malfoy coat of arms on the band, and the centerpiece could be inscribed with a Pensieve memory transformed into an image.  
  
He’d chosen the memory of the last Quidditch game he and Harry played against each other. He couldn’t think of another picture that showed them both in so good a light and which he was willing to show to the public.  
  
Harry stared at him with an expression that Draco couldn’t read for a moment. And then he leaned forwards, the paper crinkling under his elbows and his eyes so wide that they looked as if they would fall out of his head, and kissed Draco right there, with his mother watching.  
  
Draco swallowed his fear. After all, his mother wasn’t stupid. Draco suspected that she already knew and was keeping silent because Draco hadn’t shown a sign of wanting to talk about it. But he _did_ resist Harry’s attempt to stick his tongue in Draco’s mouth. There were limits to what he was willing to do in front of his mother.   
  
Harry finally sat back, and said, “What I got you isn’t anything that special.”  
  
“Well,” Draco said, and picked up the white-wrapped box he’d been saving until last. He found himself happy, for some reason, that Harry hadn’t gone for green and silver paper, the way he had the last few years. Maybe he was starting to see Draco as more than just Slytherin.  
  
 _Well, of course he is, or he wouldn’t be dating you._  
  
He tore open the paper and lifted out what looked like a red book, except with fuzz on the covers. He glanced at Harry, who flushed and coughed. “That was the only one left when I owled the shop,” he muttered, sounding apologetic. “I think everyone else had the same idea for holiday gifts that I did.”  
  
Still not knowing what the book was, Draco opened it.  
  
And then he froze, because there were large creamy pages in the book, and on every page were photographs of Harry.  
  
Draco turned silently past the images, all wizarding photographs. Harry studying with his friends. Harry eating in the Great Hall, his mouth open and showing half-chewed chicken as he laughed at Weasley; the pictured Granger who sat behind him slapped the back of his head. Harry swooping down from a Quidditch match, clutching the Snitch triumphantly in his hand.  
  
“Colin took them,” Harry said anxiously. “I didn’t know if you would like them, but I wanted to get you something special.”  
  
Draco shut the book, even though he really wanted to look through it. His mother had taught him well. There _were_ other things to do on a Christmas morning than spend all his time with his gifts.  
  
“It is special,” he whispered. “Thank you.”  
  
Harry smiled at him, and Draco blinked. Yes, he had always found Harry attractive, but when Harry was happy and smiling in a relaxed way, he was—beautiful.  
  
 _I just hope other people don’t notice. I’m the only one who needs to realize how good he looks._  
  
Harry went into the kitchen not long after that, and Narcissa cleared her throat gently. Draco turned to her, knowing what would come now. Narcissa had certain standards for the boy that her only child would date, and though Draco knew Harry passed them in his own mind, he had to wonder if Harry would pass them in his mother’s.   
  
But Narcissa only said. “Are you settled and happy, Draco?”  
  
 _Settled. She means sure of my choice_. Draco lifted his chin and stared back at his mother, and not just because he was certain. If he showed a sign of doubt, then Narcissa would court other people for him, and Draco didn’t want to be bothered by the nuisance. “I am,” he said. “Harry is everything I’ve ever wanted.”  
  
“What have you wanted?” Narcissa spoke while barely moving her lips, which Draco thought was odd, but, well, it wasn’t his business to wonder about his mother’s standards, any more than Narcissa would be able to question his once she heard them.  
  
“I’ve only wanted Harry that I can remember,” Draco said. “Someone passionate and powerful and clever—”  
  
Narcissa raised her eyebrows.  
  
“He _is_ clever,” Draco said. “Not the way that you would categorize it, no, but he is. And he’s beautiful and a fighter and strong. That’s what I want, Mother. He satisfies me like no one else would.” He hesitated, but his mother’s eyes were still skeptical, so he said the thing that would have to put a stop to whatever she was thinking about breaking him and Harry up. “I love him, Mother.”  
  
Narcissa closed her eyes and nodded in what looked like resignation. Then she opened them again and said, “Do you know, I tire of the dungeons. I think I’d like a room in one of the towers, if there’s some available.”  
  
Draco blinked at her, caught off-guard.  
  
“And I think that you should come with me,” Narcissa continued thoughtfully. “Everyone already knows that you’re not staying in Slytherin this year, and you’re closer to the people who might try to harm you down here. So come with me to the tower. You’ll be company for a woman living out her old age quietly.”  
  
Draco snorted, both at the thought of his mother being old and at the thought of her doing anything quietly. “Going there won’t keep me and Harry apart, you know. We’ll just meet in another part of the school.”  
  
Narcissa shrugged, her shoulders shifting as if she were adjusting a burden. “I suspect I can live with that.”  
  
Draco looked at her closely, then nodded. “All right. Do you think we should wait for Professor Snape before we eat?”  
  
“No.” Narcissa stood and looked at the pile of torn paper for a moment, as if she were going to find some secret in it, before she Vanished it with a flick of her wand. “I invited him to join the celebrations, but he would not. He said that he found Christmas a hard holiday to deal with and would spend the day in his rooms.”  
  
Draco shrugged and nodded. _Well, that’s that, then_. He felt a small surge of disappointment that Snape didn’t care enough about them to spend the holiday with them, but he didn’t know that much about Snape’s past, and what he knew was dark. If he had some special grief associated with Christmas, then Draco would leave him alone to nurse it.  
  
*  
  
The thing was—  
  
Harry shot a curse at him, and Severus spun past it, dropping to one knee as Harry followed that with another spell. He was both stronger and faster than he’d been, but Severus knew none of it would make any difference, not when he was challenging a Dark Lord far more learned in evil magic than he was, and smarter, and stronger.  
  
The thing was, he couldn’t tell any of them about the fear.  
  
Harry stalked a step forwards, seeking to press his nonexistent advantage. Severus uncoiled to his feet and gave him a string of spells to deal with that snapped and snarled around his defenses.  
  
None of them would believe him. All of them would discount the gnawing fear that woke him in the morning, lay with him at night, and hovered like a blurring mist before his eyes when he stood in the Potions classes during the day.  
  
Harry was just starting to trust him again, just starting to confide in him the way he might have before Severus had ruined things. Severus wouldn’t jeopardize that by talking about fear that came from nowhere and left as suddenly.  
  
Harry burst past the string of spells and rushed him. Severus fell back, not afraid of him.  
  
No, afraid _for_ him. Because now he could see that all Dumbledore’s planning, and all of his, and all of Harry’s, was going to be useless when he faced the Dark Lord at last.  
  
The Dark Lord had made Horcruxes. He had made _Harry_ into a Horcrux. How was that possible to get past? Even if the miraculous happened and all the other Horcruxes were destroyed, Harry would have to die before the destruction could be complete. And Severus knew Draco was not capable of killing him, even out of love, and he would fight fiercely to prevent such a thing from happening. Dumbledore might talk about Harry’s death, but he would take no concrete step towards accomplishing it, not when he still longed to earn the boy’s love and forgiveness.  
  
And then there was Severus himself, who was no more capable of killing Harry than he was of saving him.  
  
A curse got through his defenses and cut into his shoulder. Severus gasped and dropped to his knees again, but this time it wasn’t deliberate. He heard Harry cry out as if from a distance; all normal sounds still swam under the oily covering of fear.  
  
 _Or are they normal? The fear is the normal thing, the sane way to live when a Dark Lord is risen._   
  
“Professor Snape, are you all right? Oh, Merlin, I wouldn’t have used that if I thought there was a chance it could get through your defenses. I just wanted to see what the counter was because I didn’t remember it very well. Oh, God—”  
  
And finally Severus remembered that Harry had nearly killed Black the same way when the Dark Lord was in possession of his body, and he managed to answer calmly and sanely. There was no reason for Harry to share the same kind of fear whilst he was alive. Let him live out his hopeful life and learn it only in the last moments.  
  
“I will be fine.” He touched his wand to the wound and whispered a simple healing spell, then another to clot the blood. In a moment, he was wiping away dried blood from the closed cut. “There, you see?”  
  
Harry blinked and stepped back. “But—I thought the healing was more complicated than that.”  
  
His eyes were bright with the effort to understand. Severus felt for a moment as if his heart would burst. He had not been able to keep the first pair of eyes like that, the first person dear to him, alive and safe. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep Harry that way, either, which made him want to weep. But he could at least hold himself in check where Harry was concerned, he reminded himself sternly. He had never told Lily the full truth about the evils that the Death Eaters exposed him to in school, either.  
  
“It is not,” Severus said. “But usually, one does not have the chance to cast that charm in the middle of battle, and it is necessary to cast the blood-clotting spell with it. Otherwise, the wound bleeds out too fast, as the curse designed it to do.”  
  
“What’s the blood-clotting charm?” Now Harry’s eyes were even brighter with determination.  
  
And so Severus taught him the simple magic that he would never use, that would never make any difference, because the Dark Lord had other ways to kill than draining him of blood.  
  
Harry smiled with pleasure as he absorbed the spell, and for a long moment, Severus considered telling him about the fear. Harry looked capable of understanding anything in that moment.  
  
But then he shook his head. No, it was better not to. Kinder. How could anyone understand the sourceless terror that was consuming him now?  
  
 _How many times has anyone ever been able to understand you?_  
  
*  
  
 _Here we are again_. Ginny had assured him that Dumbledore hadn’t persuaded her against her will, though, so Harry had decided to work with him to destroy the locket as soon as Dumbledore had managed to research ways of resisting the guardian spirit.  
  
“And we put the Horcrux in the basilisk venom, and that’s it?” Harry eyed the basin of gleaming venom on Dumbledore’s desk skeptically. It sounded too simple, when he’d had to fight off Tom Riddle _and_ the snake and then stab the diary with a fang.  
  
Dumbledore nodded. His attention was on the locket, which lay gleaming beside the basin. Harry decided the guardian spirit couldn’t know what they’d planned, or it would have been out already, trying to persuade them or force them to allow it to live. “This is not the same as your first battle, Harry,” he said. “This is under controlled conditions.” He looked up with a small smile. “And then there is one less Horcrux in the world.”  
  
“And once we get rid of the stone in the ring, then we’ve destroyed three,” said Harry, to see what Dumbledore would say.  
  
It was only a small movement, but Dumbledore glanced away from him. “Yes.”  
  
Harry swallowed a sigh. Whatever Dumbledore’s fascination was with the stone in the ring, Harry didn’t think he could get him to admit it yet. And it wouldn’t do any good to try. They would need each other for the task. Harry would lower the locket into the venom, and Dumbledore would cast the Switching Charm that would force the guardian spirit out of the locket and replace it with a small, burning seed of his own magical power, which would melt the metal and corrode the protective spells Voldemort had left on the locket.  
  
Harry knew well enough that Dumbledore could have done this himself, and that Harry was being allowed to participate as a courtesy. That was another reason he didn’t want to pressure Dumbledore right now.  
  
He took a deep breath and picked up the locket. Dumbledore lifted his wand and nodded encouragingly to him. Harry used that to make himself hold onto the locket. His scar had begun to burn when he touched it.  
  
“One,” Dumbledore whispered. “Two. Three.”  
  
Harry dropped the locket into the venom. Immediately, it began to bubble and boil like a cauldron, and Dumbledore spoke the simple two-word incantation of the Switching Charm at the same moment.  
  
Something bright red, like a coal, leaped off the desk beside the basin, where nothing had been before, and Harry thought he saw it digging towards the locket. Then a brilliant flash made him start back from the venom with a hand over his face. His scar burned wildly at the same moment, and he heard an outraged shriek.  
  
The shriek went on rising instead of ending, growing louder and louder. Harry could hear Dumbledore chanting something, but he couldn’t look, because the pain in his head made him want to faint and the light was blinding him. He braced himself with one hand on the edge of the desk until he thought about the basilisk venom splashing on his hand and snatched it hastily back. Then he forced his eyes open against the light.  
  
Something dark and deformed, but small, struggled an inch from Dumbledore, above the basin, its face glowing with green magic. It shrieked without pausing. Harry supposed it didn’t have to breathe. He thought it looked like Voldemort the way he’d seen him in some dreams before he was resurrected, like a baby with stumps for legs and a face that was full of evil.  
  
And then the basilisk venom bubbled with what Harry thought was a triumphant sound, and the deformed thing vanished. Dumbledore sagged forwards, then sighed and stepped back so he wouldn’t upset the basin. Harry’s scar stopped burning in the same instant.  
  
“Is that—is that it?” Harry asked, when he could speak. His voice was scratchy. Maybe he’d screamed, too, but he wouldn’t have been able to hear it with the guardian spirit shrieking.  
  
“Yes, it is.” Dumbledore sounded breathless. He shook his head and stared hard at the basin for a moment, then sighed. “Next time, I will be better-prepared. The spirit vanished when the locket melted, but I had not realized that the Switching Charm would propel it into the world with such power.” Dumbledore stroked his beard. “It appears that the Horcrux can act as a conduit for power longer than I had thought.”  
  
Harry dropped into a chair without answering and closed his eyes. Snape had said that he would be too busy to participate in the destruction of the Horcrux, and Draco had flown into a rage and said that Harry shouldn’t be present at the destruction at all, so Harry just hadn’t told him what evening they’d planned on.   
  
He wished one of them was here now, though. He was more comfortable showing weakness in front of them than in front of Dumbledore.  
  
*  
  
 _Something is wrong with him._  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes in thought. He was sitting in the back of the Potions classroom, but that meant he still had a good view of Professor Snape. The NEWT Potions class was small, and the professor was never still, pacing back and forth as though some stinging fly hurt him when he stopped. But he didn’t snap any more than usual, the way he would have if he was really irritable.  
  
That was one of the signs that something was wrong with Snape. The others were his pale face, and the way he hadn’t objected when Narcissa had taken rooms with Draco in Ravenclaw Tower, even though for a moment he’d looked pained.  
  
And now he approached Smith, shook his head, snapped something Draco didn’t hear because he didn’t need to pay attention to it, and then picked up an ingredient lying on the table and tossed it into the cauldron.  
  
The potion exploded.  
  
Draco ducked and flinched, feeling gobbets of half-solid liquid spatter his arms. It was an instinctive reaction, which he was glad of, because he would have been too shocked to move if he’d have to leave it up to conscious thought. _Professor Snape had botched a potion._  
  
Yes, something was wrong. But Draco wasn’t so foolish as to think he could make Snape talk to him about it just by asking. Even subtly asking would be a problem, because the professor was subtle himself and would probably see through it. So he would have to approach the problem from the other way around.  
  
But no good solutions occurred to him after he left the NEWT Potions class, even when he leaned on the sill of a window on the fifth floor and gazed out into the March sunlight, keeping his breathing as calm as possible. That was a good way to suggest ways to correct the flying anklets and ideas for new projects, but manipulating someone was a different kind of idea. Draco gave up at last and went to his and his mother’s rooms.  
  
 _Maybe I should think about a different problem altogether_ , he decided, as he closed the door behind him. _Ask Father’s book about information we could use to fight the war, but not about what it means when a Potions Master botches a potion, since I wouldn’t even know how to phrase the question at this point._  
  
He smiled when he noticed that his mother was sitting at a table in the middle of the sitting room, sipping tea from a porcelain cup and reaching for a package on the table. “Who’s that from?” he asked.  
  
“My sister Andromeda.” Someone would have had to know his mother well to hear the tinge of excitement in her voice. Draco knew that she had stopped owling his aunt Andromeda or Flooing her when she married a Muggle, but she needed the support of her family now that she had left Lucius. If her sister had reached out to her first, that was important.  
  
Draco glanced idly at the box. It was wrapped in the same kind of blue-silver paper that Harry had used on his Christmas gift. Maybe it was from him. He felt a deep contentment when he considered his boyfriend and his mother exchanging presents, which they hadn’t done at this Christmas.   
  
And then he stiffened, because there was a taint of Dark magic to the box that he didn’t think he would have recognized if not for his dueling lessons with Professor Snape.   
  
“Mother, no!” he said sharply, just as she reached out and brushed a finger against the side of the box.  
  
It shifted and clicked, and then Draco grabbed Narcissa and carried her to the floor behind the table. He drew his wand as they fell and conjured a Shield Charm. His mother was working with him, he realized a moment later, and chanting her part of the Shield Charm in a steady voice, unafraid.  
  
The explosion that followed tested both their magical skill. Draco could see the table blown to splinters before he had to hide his eyes from the oncoming wave of light and force. Magic shrieked around them and battered them until Draco’s arms and shoulders were sore. But he kept chanting, feeding new power into the shields, and Narcissa matched him word for word, all the time alert and unafraid.  
  
Finally, it was over, and Draco sat up and stared at the wide cracks in the walls. He could hear shrieks outside the door, and knocking, and calling, but he couldn’t respond to them at the moment. He stared at his mother instead, waiting for her opinion.  
  
“That was from Lucius,” Narcissa said at last, after some consideration. She sat up and ran a hand through her blonde hair, studying the shattered table. “We shall have to have house-elves in here to clear out the damage. Such a nuisance.” She spoke as lightly as though they had been compelled to have an unwelcome visitor to afternoon tea.  
  
Draco swallowed and nodded. Then he stepped towards the remains of the package and contained them within a variant of the Shield Charm, a protective bubble that would preserve as much of the magical energy as possible for further investigation.  
  
He did pause when he was near it, because there was a tingle of a _different_ familiar Dark energy around it now, and because another thought had struck him. He was sure that his mother had put up precautions against any package from Lucius coming into their rooms; wards would have sounded if he had so much as touched the paper.  
  
Which meant that someone else in the school was working with or for Lucius.  
  
Draco grimaced and concentrated for a moment, trying to identify the familiarity of that second Dark magic, but it was useless. In the end, he shook his head, cast the protective bubble, and then summoned a house-elf to send word to Dumbledore.  
  
*  
  
The fear was overwhelming.  
  
It had got worse in the last few months; Severus knew that. But it had never attacked him like this, in public. He was sitting at the staff table for dinner, and the fear was rushing over him like great waves of dirty water.  
  
He wanted to close his eyes and gasp, in hopes of forcing it away. He wanted to draw his wand and fight it. He wanted to turn to Minerva and demand that she Stupefy him, because that seemed like the only thing at the moment that might stop this.  
  
But he knew better than that. The fear would be waiting when he woke up.  
  
It was overwhelming. It was punishing. And between one bite and the next of meat, Severus found that he simply couldn’t endure it anymore. He had to do something to end it, anything.  
  
And suddenly he knew, the way he once would have known the next step in a potion. He rose to his feet, made some mumbled excuse to Dumbledore and Minerva, and hurried out of the Great Hall.  
  
There was someone waiting not far away, someone who could offer him the solution to ending the fear. He believed that as strongly as he had believed a moment before that nothing could really end it.  
  
His mind tried to point out that his behavior was irrational. Severus ignored that. Living with fear for five months would make anyone irrational. He sped up, until he was almost running through the open doors of the school and towards the gates.  
  
Someone waiting there, or just beyond it. Someone who could give him what he needed. Someone who could explain the mysterious attack on Narcissa and Draco they hadn’t been able to trace yet, someone who could soothe away the fears he had about Harry, someone who could make him able to defeat the Dark Lord.  
  
Someone who could give him peace.  
  
*  
  
Draco sighed and sat back in his chair, trying to control his yawns. His mother had wanted him to eat dinner in their rooms with her tonight, and Draco had eaten so well that now he had to stave off sleep. He snorted half-heartedly, but couldn’t bring himself to regret it, and tried to think of what to ask his father’s book about.   
  
Some way to solve the mystery of who had sent his mother that package would be good, but Draco had tried any combination of words, and so had Narcissa, and nothing had resulted. There’d been no attack since. Everything had settled down into an ominous silence, as ominous as the fact that the Dark Lord hadn’t made a move to attack Harry in almost a year now, and his attacks on other people had stopped. Draco couldn’t understand it. Harry was improving in Occlumency, but he wasn’t good enough, probably, to keep the Dark Lord out. Why did he stay out?  
  
Harry had asked Dumbledore, and then shrugged the next time Draco saw him after that. Dumbledore believed that the Dark Lord, having handed the task of killing Harry over to Bellatrix Lestrange, didn’t want to “lower” himself by doing anything to help the task. Draco had pointed out that didn’t explain the rest of his silence, and Harry had agreed.  
  
But neither of them could do anything about it—which seemed to explain a lot of the war lately, Draco thought. Life had become an endless round of kissing and training and homework. The first part was certainly pleasant, but Draco wanted it to go somewhere, and so far it didn’t seem as if it would. Maybe nothing would happen until Harry met and battled Bellatrix Lestrange, and then the Dark Lord would have to come after him himself.  
  
 _The Lestranges. That’s something I can ask the book about._  
  
Draco did, keeping the question as general as possible, so that the book could offer him any real information it had. Words swirled out of the depths of the paper and assembled on the page. Draco began reading idly, knowing he would need a second session when he was fully awake to understand what the book had said.   
  
_The Lestranges are more widespread than has been considered, and more numerous. Of course, as some members of every generation in the past century have been criminals, many pure-blood families have thought it wise to hide their connection with them. Among the families that the Lestranges have married into are the Blacks, the Malfoys, the Rosiers, the Wellinghams…_  
  
Draco’s eye nearly skipped past the last part. And then he started awake and read it again and again.  
  
 _The Wellinghams._  
  
Draco concentrated fiercely. He had only heard the name once, in a discussion in the Slytherin common room about other students’ genealogy, but he was sure he remembered it, anyway. He had been trained to memorize facts about heredity and complicated family trees quite young, after all.  
  
Wellingham was the maiden name of Seamus Finnigan’s mother.  
  
Not sure what exactly it meant, but knowing it was important, Draco stood and ran from the rooms, intent on finding Harry.  
  
*  
  
Harry followed Snape for many reasons when he left the Great Hall.  
  
He followed him because something was clearly not right. Snape had been growing more and more distant lately, more jumpy. Harry had thought that something was happening with his potions, and then with his teaching, and then with his conversations with Dumbledore. But no matter what he suggested, Snape denied it all. And that left subjects that Harry wasn’t comfortable broaching, such as Snape’s relationship with his mother.  
  
He followed him because other people stared after him, but no one did anything. If Harry was good at anything besides Quidditch, Defense, and bringing Draco off, it was saving people no one else would save.  
  
He followed him because he had started to feel again, lately, as if he could trust Snape, and he wanted to tell him so. Maybe hearing that would turn Snape around and away from whatever was hurting him lately.  
  
Harry was surprised when he saw Snape running through the Hogwarts gates and towards the Forbidden Forest, but he shrugged and followed anyway, faster, under the guise of a Disillusionment Charm. He missed his Invisibility Cloak for a moment, but he’d had to get along without it for four years now; this was just another thing he’d have to do without it.  
  
Faster they went, over dark hollows and past dark trees and away from the sun. Harry was panting by the time Snape stopped, and fought to conceal the sound from Snape’s ears.  
  
Snape came to a stop in front of a tree at first, and stared about as if he didn’t know what to do. Then a figure moved in the shadows of the tree, and threw back the hood of a cloak that had covered its head. A white mask dangled from the figure’s hand, a Death Eater’s mask.  
  
Harry knew who she was at once; he’d heard her described often enough. Black eyes, long black hair, a sulky face lit by the brilliance of craziness. And then she looked straight at him, seeing past the Disillusionment Charm, and laughed.  
  
“Little baby Potter,” she said. “How delightful of you to join us.” She nodded at Snape. “I believe that the only way to make the fear go away is to kill him now, Severus, because my Lord would only finish the job in a crueler fashion,” she said.   
  
And then Snape wheeled around, and Harry saw that all the light and life was gone from his eyes, drowned under expanded, enormous pupils, and suddenly Harry was facing both Snape’s and Bellatrix’s wands.  
  
He drew his wand, because there was nothing else he could do, although his heart made his throat hurt, and went to battle.


	25. Run

  
Bellatrix and Snape struck at the same time, Bellatrix with a Cutting Curse and Snape with a curse that Harry hadn’t learned but which looked like a forked green bolt of lightning.   
  
_It must be like_ , Harry thought, and didn’t even finish the thought, his memory leaping ahead of him to one of his training sessions with Sirius last year. He flicked up a Shield Charm to handle the Cutting Curse and turned to meet the green lightning, casting the countercharm to the spelled Sirius had fired at him with a circle of his wand in the air and a strong, steady chant.  
  
The lightning hit the suddenly solidifying air in front of him and faded away entirely. Harry leaped back instead of grinning in triumph the way he wanted to. This wasn’t a dueling session with Sirius, and no one would pause to praise him. And it wasn’t a dueling session with Snape, where the spells would never have their full power behind them so that he couldn’t be hurt—  
  
He wanted to laugh madly the moment he had that thought. _Except that it kind of is._   
  
He wanted to get out of sight. It was the only chance he stood against two Death Eaters. And he had to think of Snape that way for the moment. If he had a chance to hide and recover himself, then he could think of the best way to get Snape to stop attacking without hurting him and capture Bellatrix.  
  
He dropped into a hollow between the roots of the nearest tree, and a red curse went over his head and filled the night with dazzling radiance. Harry shut his eyes and was glad that Snape had made him practice a little with blind dueling.  
  
 _Not enough. Not nearly enough to survive this—_  
  
But there was no reason that he had to think like that, and so Harry forbade himself to do it in the next moment. He began moving instead, aiming back towards the school, glad that it was spring and the grass had mostly replaced the fallen leaves. But then his hand landed on a leaf and crunched anyway, and Bellatrix laughed wildly and sent a blue burst like a firework after him.  
  
“Can’t hide, little baby,” she said, crooning. To Harry’s disgust, she sounded exactly like the way Aunt Petunia used to tell Dudley he had birthday presents waiting. “My little baby, who I’m going to dandle and hold close and bundle up _tight_.”  
  
That was the only warning Harry had before a bright silver web unfolded in the air above him and dropped over his head, binding his hands to his sides.   
  
*  
  
Draco pounded through the school to the doors of the Great Hall and hesitated a moment outside them. He wondered if he should just burst inside, the way he wanted to do, and rush up to Harry. Finnigan would probably be sitting at the Gryffindor table with him, and Draco wanted to make this revelation in private. It would take some time to convince Harry that Finnigan was even in the wrong, since he was so intent on forgiving him. And then they would need to make sure that Finnigan couldn’t escape before they questioned him.  
  
On the other hand, maybe it would be good to be public about this from the beginning, the way that his mother had been in asking for Harry’s protection.  
  
As he waited there, worrying his lip, a hand clasped his shoulder. Draco spun around, his wand raised, but Narcissa seemed to have guessed he would do that and was already out of range. Her eyes, serene and patient as the full moon, were fixed on his face.  
  
“I knew something was wrong, given the way you ran out of our rooms,” she said calmly. “Draco, what is it?”  
  
Draco paused and swallowed. Then he shook his head. _What am I thinking? Of course Mother is on our side, and of course she isn’t going to order me back into hiding as if I were a child or take this less than seriously. I’m almost of age, anyway, and she’s sensible._  
  
“I discovered some information that Harry needs to know immediately,” he whispered. “Finnigan, the boy who burned his possessions and was under Bellatrix’s fear spells earlier in the year, is also _related_ to the Lestranges. I wanted him to know that. I wanted him to realize that Finnigan might still be under her influence.”  
  
His mother’s eyes showed grim comprehension, of course. She knew, as well as he did, that pure-blood magic could be linked to family inheritance, and it wasn’t out of the question that Bellatrix was still influencing Finnigan. If the fear spell had impressed itself deeply on his spirit, then she might be able to make it come and go at will, and Finnigan _would_ think he was behaving normally when she let him have his mind back.  
  
Narcissa lifted her wand and performed a quick spell that Draco didn’t know, but which made a small sphere of blue light appear before her, crosshatched with silver lines. Whatever it showed her made her lips tighten. “Neither Professor Snape nor Potter is in the school right now,” she said. “They’re in the Forbidden Forest.”  
  
Draco’s throat went tight with fear again. Why would they be out _there_? There was no plausible reason. Even if Snape had wanted to tutor Harry and had ordered him to go on a “detention” into the Forest, it wouldn’t be during dinner.  
  
Draco began running again, this time lighting his wand so that he could see any signs of a passage into the Forest. His mother followed without pause and without complaint.  
  
*  
  
Harry wanted to scream as he discovered that the web wound itself more tightly around him when he struggled. It tangled his legs and even sank between his fingers, trying to force them apart so that he couldn’t hold his wand anymore.   
  
_So stop struggling._  
  
Harry froze when he had that thought. It was the same kind of cold command that he’d given himself at the Dursleys’ the summer before last, when he’d been starving. It was no use thinking about food, so he wouldn’t think of it.  
  
And it was no use panicking or kicking out right now, so he wouldn’t panic or kick out.  
  
He had been in tighter situations in the past, like facing Voldemort. He had managed to escape them. He would escape this time.  
  
 _Facing Voldemort…_  
  
And Harry had his idea. He still had hold of his wand, and he could still perform a simple pass. He whispered a spell that he had used before and then slumped back against the trunk of the tree, letting his eyes roll. Bellatrix would think he’d fainted, he hoped. If she was crazy and proud of her own reputation, then it should be a natural thing for her to conclude.  
  
Thrashing accompanied by soundless steps, and then Bellatrix was in front of him with Snape trailing behind her. Harry watched him carefully, as much as he could under his slitted eyelids. His eyes were way too wide and blank, and he walked as though someone else was manipulating his limbs with strings.  
  
 _He didn’t attack me willingly. It was all Bellatrix’s doing. Her and her fear spells._  
  
Harry felt a bit of hatred creep into his heart and push out into a black plant. If he had to spend all night doing it, he _would_ make sure that Bellatrix was captured and put away in Azkaban. It was cruel of her to hurt Snape like that.  
  
“I think we’ve got the baby,” Bellatrix said, and began to sing in a cracked voice. “Hush, baby-bye, hush baby.” Her hands reached out and caressed the web as if she weren’t the one who had used the spell, and had no idea of its results.   
  
Harry felt her nails touch his skin, and fought the urge to vomit. _You’re unconscious, remember? You don’t know she’s here._   
  
And then he heard the snap of a branch torn off by something flying past it really fast, and he heard Bellatrix’s startled shriek, and he forced himself to roll to the side, using the little movement he had left in the net.   
  
The web stuck to the broom, as he had hoped it would, and then the Firebolt was carrying him above the trees. Harry lay there and laughed for a moment, despite the fact that the web was still around him and the wind almost tore the wand from his hand. He had used the Summoning Charm on the Firebolt for the third time, just like he had with the dragon and Voldemort. And it had _worked._   
  
He felt powerful, not useless. He felt like he didn’t need to wait for Snape or Draco to rescue him.  
  
But then two spells exploded near him, with sharp sounds that told him they were Blasting Curses or close relatives, and he realized that he had to stop congratulating himself and actually sit up and _do_ something. And he had to find something that would get the web off him whilst not hurting him or the broom, and not require a lot of wand movement.  
  
He thought about using a Cutting Curse as he steered the broom with his legs and ankles over the Forest’s highest trees, but he decided the web had probably been made to resist such spells. The web and the Cutting Curse were both Dark Arts, and wizards who used them tended to think of other Dark spells first when they were trying to come up with magic that couldn’t be easily countered.   
  
_Snape was the one who taught me that._  
  
But he had to push aside his grief and concentrate on acting instead. It was the only thing that would help both Snape and him.  
  
Besides, he doubted that he could use the Cutting Curse at close quarters like this without cutting himself instead.   
  
He steered the broom higher as something scraped past his leg. He shivered and watched his breath form in front of him, wondering if he’d be able to manage a Warming Charm with his fingers tied like this—  
  
And then the perfect countercharm for the web came to him. A Chilling Charm didn’t need much movement of the fingers. He twitched his wand and whispered, “ _Derigesco_!”  
  
The web turned brittle and silver at once. Harry moved his fingers again, and this time the slender splinters of ice that the web had become fell away from him and pattered on the ground far below. He laughed and swayed from side to side, breaking the web with easy movements.  
  
Then something hit the bristles of the broom, and the Firebolt was turning parallel to the ground instead of still rising the way Harry wanted it to, and he realized that someone had seized control of it. He cursed and sat up, shivering and aiming his wand at the ground. The minute he found Bellatrix, he would do something _permanent_ to her.  
  
*  
  
Draco had found a faint trail in the grass that seemed to be making for the Forest, but for long moments he was afraid he wasn’t going to find Harry or Professor Snape after all. It was getting dark, and his Point-Me spells were useless, as were his mother’s. Narcissa had said, when Draco asked her about it, “I am afraid that someone has them under several Baffling Charms,” and then shut her lips so hard they made a thin white line in her face.  
  
But it turned out that he didn’t need to worry. Harry seized the most dramatic method of doing things, as usual.  
  
A broom circled past the moon, with a slender figure riding it. Draco saw it at the same moment as a pair of giant pincers encircled the broom’s tail and started steering it back to the Forest. He knew that spell. It was a Guide Spell, banned from Quidditch so long ago that it was usually found only in history books now.  
  
He aimed his own wand, not knowing what he would do with it, when he didn’t know the countercharm to the Guide Spell and he couldn’t see the person casting it. But his mother stepped past him and spoke confidently, a rumbling mix of Latin words that made the pincers vanish and a brilliant white star flare into being over the Forest. Draco watched the star send out beams. Narcissa nodded when one of them vanished among the trees.  
  
“That will be Bellatrix’s location,” she said. “I will handle her. You stay and help your Harry, Draco, as you would be distracted by grief and worry over him otherwise.” And she broke away and strode into the Forest before Draco could object that Finnigan might be with Bellatrix and he should come to help.  
  
He swallowed his protest and turned to look up at Harry. For some reason, something like rain or snow was falling away from the broom, and Draco supposed that Harry might have had to cast some strange spells. He Summoned a broom from the school for himself, and made the charm as strong as he could. The sooner he could join Harry in the air and explain that he had friends here to help him, the happier he would be.  
  
*  
  
Severus felt as though he were climbing, precariously, to the top of a ladder made of sludge. The moment Bellatrix’s attention had shifted away from him and Harry had flown up on the mysteriously appearing broom, his mind had started to change.  
  
He could feel some of the fear easing, and suddenly Bellatrix’s conclusions seemed strange. How in the world could he save Harry by killing him? _Bellatrix_ had been the one assigned by the Dark Lord to kill Harry. Of course what she said to him couldn’t be trusted, and Severus felt like a fool for ever doing so.  
  
But when she spoke to him in the context of his fear, it all seemed so reasonable…  
  
And then another rung solidified beneath his hands, and he understood. _She used a fear spell on me. She made me believe that I was going mad and that no one else would share my emotions, which prevented me from confiding in Harry the way I would surely have done otherwise._  
  
Finally released from a prison he hadn’t known was holding him, Severus saw and thought clearly for the first time in months, and outrage raced through him like a brushfire. The fear was still there, clinging in smoky clouds to his thoughts, but it no longer ruled his actions. He could even turn his wand on Bellatrix, who was occupied trying to curse Harry, as long as he kept the movements slow enough that his limbs didn’t stiffen with rejection.  
  
 _She made me do this. She is the one who made me act in a way that ensured I might lose Harry’s trust forever. She is the one who is responsible for this suffering of mine._  
  
Rage threatened to cloud his perceptions in the same way the fear had done, but Severus managed to hold still and breathe until it had passed. He recited some of the properties of fear spells to himself in an effort to calm down. Fear spells turned the mind against itself, and they were most effective against precisely those who were most able to think their way around fear naturally, which was one reason they had so often been used in the production of traitors. The greater rationality one possessed, the more excuses one could come up with as to why actions under the fear spells continued to be rational.  
  
He had known all that, and he had _still_ allowed himself to be influenced. Severus was disappointed in his own will and fortitude. He had come to think that he was the strongest figure in Harry’s life, the most dependable, compared to the smitten Draco and the crippled Black and the manipulative Dumbledore. He had been corrupted.  
  
But that was not his fault, it was Bellatrix’s.   
  
And he would compel her to pay.  
  
He began carefully, painfully pulling in his energies, ready to send them through his wand in a coordinated blast when he had gathered them enough.   
  
And then Narcissa Malfoy burst out from between the trees, and his and Bellatrix’s plans both changed in the sliding of an instant.  
  
*  
  
Harry shed the last of the ice and promptly cast a Warming Charm on himself. He didn’t know why the force pulling on his broom had vanished, but he was grateful it had.  
  
 _Maybe Snape came back to himself and gave Bellatrix something to think about._  
  
But Harry ended up shaking his head, because from what he had seen of Snape’s face, he was going to need help to recover, and simply hoping he would was stupid. Someone needed to rescue him. Harry pivoted his broom back towards the Forbidden Forest, confident that Bellatrix would reveal herself with another spell in a moment and then he could swoop down to help. His wand tingled in his palm, and his breathing was softer and smoother than he’d expected it to be. He’d trained for a duel like this for two years now, and he hadn’t actually been injured. He could do this.  
  
“Harry!”  
  
 _Change of plans_ , Harry thought, turning and staring incredulously at Draco. Draco was speeding towards him on a school broom, his face so pale that Harry automatically looked for some sign of flowing blood. But Draco flew up to him and grabbed him around the shoulders instead, pulling him in for a long, silent hug. Harry hugged him back, though he was more anxious now than ever. If Draco was on the battlefield, then there was a high chance Bellatrix would hurt him.   
  
“Draco? What are you doing here? How did you know I was out here with them?” He jerked his head at the Forest.  
  
“I learned from my book that Finnigan is related to the Lestranges,” Draco said in a distracted voice, running his hands over Harry’s shoulders and down his back. Harry wasn’t sure if he was looking for injuries or just trying to calm himself, but either way he tried to hover as motionlessly as possible so that Draco could touch him. “I wanted to come tell you, and then I realized that you weren’t at dinner when my mother cast a spell to help find you.”  
  
“Your mother?” Harry cursed under his breath and looked down into the Forest. “Snape is with Bellatrix, Draco. Under her control or something. Your mother might be walking into a trap.”  
  
“Well, then.” Draco pulled back onto his own broom, in control again so fast that Harry was amazed. He pointed his wand towards the trees and moved it up and down as if he was writing the number 11 in the air. Nothing happened to Harry’s eyes, but Draco seemed satisfied. “She’s over here,” he said, and dived.  
  
Harry followed without hesitation. If he could dodge in and out between the stands in a Quidditch game, then he could do the same through the branches in the Forbidden Forest.   
  
*  
  
Draco kept his eyes on the soft white glow, which only someone with Malfoy blood could see. It would make everyone who was of the family, or married into the family, shine when a certain spell was cast.  
  
He was worried, remembering that Bellatrix was mad and Snape was a great duelist, but he was confident that they would reach his mother in time. Harry was safe. That meant his mother had to be.  
  
He twisted around to avoid a branch, and then Harry was right there with him, head ducked to the point that Draco winced for his neck. He dodged around a trunk, and Harry was there with him, flying sideways. They flew beneath a rustling canopy of leaves together and suddenly came into open air over a broad clearing.  
  
Two figures were dueling below. Draco recognized his mother by the movement of her bright robes. And the woman facing her had to be his aunt Bellatrix. Draco shuddered. She looked like Black, but the expression of twisted madness on her face was horrifying and half-destroyed the resemblance.  
  
Swaying next to them was Professor Snape, whose wand kept wavering back and forth. He looked as though he wanted to fight against whatever Bellatrix was doing to him, but Draco didn’t know if he would be able to.  
  
And Draco knew _he_ would have to handle the main part of the Snape-rescuing, because Harry wasn’t a good enough Occlumens. He pulled himself up, drew his wand, and said, “I’m going to make sure that Professor Snape joins the battle on my mother’s side, Harry. Guard my back and defend my mother if you can.”  
  
He hurtled down thirty feet, to a height where he trusted that he would gain Bellatrix’s attention. She looked at him briefly, cackled, and then turned back to Narcissa. But Snape, his eyes following Bellatrix’s command the way they had to, looked at him and went on looking.  
  
Draco was glad. Legilimency was easier with eye contact—not that anything would be _easy_ about this, but he didn’t need obstacles that he could get rid of with ordinary precautions.  
  
“ _Legilimens_ ,” he said, and then a ravening whirlwind ripped him from the broom and drowned him in fear. The last sound he heard that he could be sure belonged to the real world was Harry’s voice yelling Latin words in a mixture of grief and pain, fury and love.  
  
*  
  
Severus was still struggling against Bellatrix’s commands. Now and then she wanted him to hurt Narcissa, but she didn’t seem to notice yet that he hadn’t done so. She thought it was too good a joke that her sister was fighting her, Severus thought bitterly. So far, Bellatrix had made at least three disgusting jokes about times she and Narcissa had been together as children that Severus never wanted to hear again.  
  
So he could hold out against her, but for how long? Severus had seen Bellatrix in battle before this. Her amusement would last until she herself was seriously wounded, and then she would shift to hysterical rage in an instant and think only of destroying her enemy. And Severus was still not completely free of her hold on his body, though his mind cleared every movement.  
  
Something dropped from above like a dragon. Severus would have looked up instinctively, but it helped that Bellatrix looked at it, and she didn’t follow the movement with an immediate command, so Severus could keep looking.  
  
And then Draco’s eyes were boring into his, and his mind was reaching out, sliding into Severus’s like a hand sliding into one poised to receive it.  
  
 _I’m here, Professor Snape. I’ll help you if I can._  
  
It was the first _reassuring_ Legilimency that Severus had ever experienced. When his mind made contact with the Dark Lord’s, it was in battle, and the same thing had occurred with Dumbledore in the past when the Headmaster attempted to read his thoughts without Severus’s permission. Trying to teach Harry had been a disaster. But this was the work of someone not as delicate as Severus himself, but experienced enough to lend strength where it was most needed. Severus seized control of the power and pulled it like a rope covered with cleaning cloths across his mind, scrubbing fiercely at the oily patches of fear.   
  
The emotion fled, and when Draco caught on to what he was doing and began doing it himself, then Severus was free to try and regain control of his body. He sent his will flooding into his arms and fingers, forcing his fingers to move independently, and then to clench on his wand. His arms relaxed from the stiff posture Bellatrix had kept him in, and then he whirled on her.  
  
Bellatrix had just forced Narcissa into a defensive posture, and was cackling insanely as she dug at her feet with red spells that Severus knew mimicked the effects of particular poisonous potions. Narcissa showed no more sign of effort than the pallor of her face, but Severus knew that maintaining such a strong, all-purpose Shield Charm was draining her quickly. She would have lost if Bellatrix had forced Severus to join the fight.  
  
Severus knew exactly what spell he wanted to cast on Bellatrix to pay her back for the months of terror, the visions of his mother, and the idea that Harry would die at the Dark Lord’s hands no matter what happened. His lips barely moved as he spoke the syllables; he could have cast it nonverbally, as strong as he felt then, except that he didn’t want to take the smallest chance that something might have gone wrong. “ _Implico mentem_!”  
  
Bellatrix uttered a short cry as the spell reached her and surrounded her in a green prism. Then her body slumped forwards and she began to grope at the air around her with shaking hands. Her wand dropped unnoticed into the dirt. Severus summoned it to him with a contemptuous flick of his own wrist and tucked it carefully deep into a pocket. He thought it best if he kept it for some time, even avoiding its surrender to Dumbledore. In misguided compassion for one Severus knew was a merciless beast, Dumbledore would probably place it too near her.  
  
Draco landed his broom next to his mother, reaching out and encircling her shoulders with an arm as if he wanted to hold her close and prevent her from ever having to battle again. Narcissa let her shield fall and smiled gently at him. Severus thought she was amused at the reversal of roles, considering how often and for how long she had protected Draco from the harsher realities of his life as a Death Eater’s son, but Draco didn’t notice. He was staring at Severus with a serious, searching expression, as if trying to learn from the outside whether all traces of the fear spell were gone.  
  
“What did you do to her?”  
  
 _And that question is Harry’s_ , Severus thought, as he turned to him and caught the boy’s eye. Harry had landed his broom not far from Draco and turned his face cautiously between Severus and Bellatrix. _Of course it is._  
  
“I have entangled her mind,” Severus said, making sure to keep his voice gentle and reassuring. No need for violence at the moment, especially when violence would probably only make Harry flinch back from him and return to the distrust that had endured since last year. “She does not see the world as it is, but a mental prison of her own nightmares.”  
  
Harry winced. “That’s—”  
  
“She has controlled my mind for the last four months,” Severus said sharply. He couldn’t help the sharpness, not this time. He deserved _some_ of the kindness that Harry was forever flinging away on those who did not deserve it. “Would you have me spare her this? The mildest punishment that is sure to hold her until we can decide what to do with her?”  
  
Harry took a deep breath and looked up at him. “No,” he said. “I know that you did what you had to. But I’ve suffered nightmares myself, and I just—I just can’t look at anyone suffering from them and _not_ feel that they don’t deserve them.”  
  
Severus calmed a little himself at the sight of Harry’s distress. He had to remember that Harry didn’t know what he’d suffered from these last few months, either—had no idea of the dark visions that had plagued Severus as he thought of Harry inevitably dying at the Dark Lord’s hands. This was the time to make peace.  
  
“She put me under a fear spell,” Severus said. “It corrupted my rational faculties and made me unable to confess my emotions to anyone else, for fear that they would scorn me. And of course, with my past and my pride, it was very easy for her to convince me of that.”  
  
“And so that was why you didn’t come talk to me, and that’s why you’ve been acting like you have,” said Harry, as if he were talking to himself. He straightened his shoulders a moment later. “I’m glad that you’re free of it now, sir,” he said. Then his eyes narrowed. “You are free of it, aren’t you?”  
  
“Yes.” Severus took a moment to scan his own mind, just to be certain, but nodded in satisfaction when he could find no more greasy tatters of the spell. “Draco helped me rid myself of it.” He nodded to Draco in approbation. “I had no idea that you were so proficient in Occlumency and Legilimency, Draco.”  
  
Draco nodded back instead of displaying the false pride and stammering modesty that Harry would have. “I have to know it, to make tutoring Harry possible,” he said.  
  
Harry smiled as if he appreciated the jibe, and then stepped up next to Draco. The glances they exchanged told Severus more than he wished to know about the turn his students’ lives had taken whilst he was under the spell and unable to notice it. He felt a little ill, but he pushed aside the reaction. If this was what both Harry and Draco needed to be happy—if this would give Harry a reason to survive and Draco no reason to regret turning against his father—then surely he could not begrudge them what they felt.  
  
“In the meantime,” Severus said, and wished he didn’t sound quite as much as if he were trying to convince himself, “we must take Bellatrix back to Hogwarts.” He grimaced. “Quite obviously she was the one who enchanted the package that you received, Narcissa, which bore the touch of Dark magic—”  
  
“She did not,” Narcissa said decisively. She had been so silent in the past few minutes, and had spoken to him so little—that he remembered—for the past few months, that Severus started. He had forgotten she could be forceful when she wanted something. “I would have recognized the taint of my sister’s magic. It is hard for blood relatives to hide from each other. Besides, I strengthened the wards placed around my rooms the moment I heard of Bellatrix’s escape from Azkaban, and I brought the knowledge of those wards with me to Hogwarts.”  
  
Severus frowned, baffled. He had been sure that Bellatrix had managed to reach Narcissa if she had managed to reach _him_.  
  
But then he remembered something he had almost forgotten: his Dark Mark burning the night he had received the vision of his mother. Yes, it was possible Bellatrix had reached him through that.  
  
 _And she could have commanded me to do any number of things_ , Severus thought, with a grimace at the woman kneeling next to him and groping her way in front of her as though through a thick mist.  
  
“Then perhaps I—”  
  
“I moved Draco to rooms in Ravenclaw Tower because I was concerned about your erratic behavior.” Narcissa arched an eyebrow. “I would also have recognized your magic. Indeed, I rather expected it at first.”  
  
“Isn’t it obvious?” Draco broke in impatiently. “That was the information I found out and came to tell you in the first place. Finnigan is related to Lestrange. She must have forced him to get the package past the wards.”  
  
“But Professor Snape took away the fear spell on him,” said Harry, his voice full of stubbornness.  
  
 _Gryffindors, loyal to a fault_ , Severus thought, but it was only an idle thought to occupy the surface of his mind whilst the underlayers sped towards a conclusion. When he reached it, he sucked in a sharp breath.  
  
“I never freed Finnigan from a fear spell,” he said.  
  
Harry turned to face him, hands clenched into fists as if he thought that Severus might mean to betray him again. “Yes, you did,” he said. “You told us you did, and his symptoms were consistent with fear spells—”  
  
“They were not,” Severus said shortly. He chided himself for not realizing this earlier, but then, under Bellatrix’s control, he would have been lucky to have a moment of clear thought _to_ realize it. “I did not find the same patches of drifting terror in his mind that I encountered in my own.”  
  
“But the shaking in his hands was—”  
  
“The shaking in his hands could have been faked,” Draco interrupted this time, which made Harry toss him an irritated look. Draco didn’t take notice, which, Severus thought, was as it should be. “Especially if he was working with Bellatrix or the Dark Lord at the time. They gave us symptoms of what we _expected_ to see, and we went along with them and thought exactly what they expected us to think.” He made a soft disgusted noise and shook his head. “I thought it was too simple when we ‘freed’ Finnigan.”  
  
“But then what _did_ he suffer under?” Harry snapped, not sounding willing to let the argument go. “You can’t tell me that it was part of Voldemort’s plans to have him attack me openly like that. He should have either killed me right away, or waited until there was a better time to do it.”  
  
“He suffered from nightmares,” said Draco, thinking aloud. “Inability to control his actions. Extreme emotions, but maybe that was him fighting back against whatever the Dark Lord had done and getting desperate.” Harry relaxed a little as he spoke that last sentence, and Severus muffled his snort. Yes, Draco had learned well how to handle Harry.   
  
“There was evidence of some kind of mental tampering in his mind,” Severus admitted. “Some of it could have been feigned to convince me that he had been under the fear spells, but I believe some of it real. It looked as though many wounds had been opened at one time and then clumsily allowed to heal.”  
  
“Voldemort possessed him,” Harry whispered.  
  
Draco moved closer to his mother, as though the mere speaking of the words aloud threatened her. Severus turned to face Harry, whose face was as pale as the moonlight. “You don’t know that, Harry,” he said gently. He thought the contention might actually be right, but the evidence was scant, and he didn’t want Harry erupting into another of his misguided bursts of pity for Finnigan.  
  
“I think he did,” said Harry. “I had nightmares. I remember fighting in desperation against Voldemort’s control. And there were wounds in my mind. Still are.” He wrapped his arms around himself.   
  
Draco stepped towards him, but Severus was faster. Harry stiffened as Severus embraced him, but didn’t reject it, which made Severus glad that he had risked the motion. “It could still have been Bellatrix controlling him, and not the Dark Lord,” he said. “There are spells that will allow pure-bloods to control those who share blood descent with them, no matter how distant. And certainly the Dark Lord would have made sure to learn them, so that he might control any wizarding relatives of his that remained.”  
  
Harry met his eyes. “But Bellatrix married into the Lestranges, she wasn’t born into them.”  
  
Severus paused. “It does not matter,” he said, with a shrug. “Her husband could have taught them to her.”  
  
“But for her to _use_ them, it would have meant that he had to share her blood, right?” Harry shook his head, his eyes shut and his face sick. “No, I think that Voldemort has been possessing him all along. He knew the powerful Dark magic that destroyed my Invisibility Cloak. And he was frantic when he found out I spoke Parseltongue. I thought it was strange that Seamus hated Parselmouths so much, when he wouldn’t have known his mother’s relative. But what if he was really expressing Voldemort’s fear that another Parselmouth existed, someone who could challenge him?”  
  
“You’re wrong,” Draco said, his voice shattering in its impact and loudness. “You must be wrong. The Dark Lord was in spirit form during our second year. He couldn’t have possessed Finnigan.”  
  
“He’s not the only kind of spirit that could have done possession.” Harry massaged his forehead over his scar, as if it hurt. “What if Seamus was in contact with a Horcrux?”  
  
And then Severus _did_ feel like cursing himself for a fool.  
  
*  
  
“But where could he have got one?” Draco was insisting, as they took Bellatrix back to the school. Neither he nor Professor Snape had wanted to take Bellatrix to Dumbledore, but Harry had pointed out that they sort of had to. Dumbledore would probably have seen Snape and Harry running out, at least, and he would want an explanation for that. And he would feel Bellatrix’s passage through the wards, too, which ruled out trying to hide her inside the school. “ _We_ don’t even know where the Horcruxes are.”  
  
“We know where three are,” Harry said tiredly, rubbing his scar. It didn’t hurt, but it retained a _memory_ of pain. He was sick just thinking about Seamus being possessed by Voldemort. He was frightened for Seamus, and for his friends, who had spent years sleeping next to someone who would probably have gladly murdered them all in their beds. Seamus burning his things was bad, but it was so small compared to what _could_ have happened. “The diary and the locket are destroyed. The stone—Dumbledore’s having difficulties with it. It’s harder to destroy, I think. And then he thinks that Nagini, Voldemort’s snake, is one. And we know I’m one.”  
  
Draco growled under his breath, the way he usually did when Harry referred to that. Harry ignored him. Refusing to mention Voldemort’s piece of soul in him wouldn’t make that piece of soul go away.  
  
“The other two or three—I don’t know. But you said that the Lestranges were Voldemort’s most ardent followers. What if they had the Horcrux, just like your father had the diary and the locket? And then Seamus’s mother or Seamus came in contact with it somehow.” Harry shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Maybe the Ministry gave the Finnigans the Lestrange vault when the Lestranges went to Azkaban. Stranger things have happened.”  
  
“That is rather excellent reasoning, Harry.”  
  
Harry started and looked over his shoulder. He had somehow managed to forget that Mrs. Malfoy and Snape were walking behind them, with Bellatrix floating between them, still trapped and scrabbling at the air. Snape was studying him with a keen eye that made him wish he could go on forgetting. He turned back to face the castle with a soft snort. “I don’t know what happened. I just _think_ that’s what happened.”  
  
“At some point,” Snape said, his voice so soft that Harry thought Draco and Mrs. Malfoy wouldn’t have overheard him, except that they were walking so close together, “we must address this lingering distrust you and I have.”  
  
 _Except it’s not going to be right now_ , Harry thought, and that was good enough for him. “We have to do something about Seamus,” he said, glad to change the subject. “But if we confront him, then he’ll just run, and if we try to force Voldemort out of his body—I’m not sure we can do that, not if he’s been possessing him for years.”  
  
“The guardian spirits of the Horcruxes should be weaker than the spirit of the Dark Lord himself,” Snape said in the strangest tone, as if he wanted to be gentle about Seamus for some reason. Harry knew that couldn’t be true. He hated Seamus. “And the link may be weaker than the special link that your scar creates.”  
  
“I hope so,” said Harry, and then turned determinedly back to the school. They were almost to the entrance now, and luckily it was late enough that most of the students would be in their common rooms. He turned and cast a Disillusionment Charm at Bellatrix just in case, though. “For now, we have to go to Dumbledore. Maybe he’ll even have some ideas about how to handle Seamus.”  
  
Snape’s snort said that he doubted it, but he didn’t protest. No one had protested for the last little while, Harry realized. Maybe they were all too tired to do it.  
  
Or maybe his arguments about going to Dumbledore made sense, and they trusted him.  
  
Harry made an uncomfortable shrugging motion as they arrived at the gargoyle and it leaped aside when Snape spoke the password. _I don’t want to be in this role. I mean, maybe I’ve had to be the rescuer and the savior before, but I’ve never been a leader. I don’t want them to look at me that way.  
  
But they both know about the prophecy now. They probably will look at me that way, whether I want them to or not._   
  
Harry brooded in silence as they rode the moving staircase up to the office. But he straightened up when they got there and tried to put his best and most persuasive expression on his face. He would _have_ to convince Dumbledore that it was for the best to do something about Bellatrix without sending her back to Azkaban. She would just escape again, or Voldemort would find some way to rescue her. And he had to persuade him that hitting Seamus hard wasn’t the answer, either. Seamus’s spirit was still in there, somewhere, just like Harry’s soul had been there, struggling against Voldemort’s possession. If Snape had rescued Harry instead of destroying him, they could do the same thing with Seamus.  
  
The door opened. Harry stepped into the office.   
  
His mouth dropped open. Dumbledore stood behind his desk, clutching a stone that Harry recognized at once as the stone that had been in the Slytherin ring—the third Horcrux. His eyes were fixed wistfully on a shimmer in the air in front of him, which looked like a little girl with a bright face and hopeful smile. She had one hand extended to touch him.  
  
 _That could be the guardian spirit of the Horcrux! What is he_ doing? Harry drew his wand without thought and yelled, “ _Accio_ stone!”  
  
The stone leaped out of Dumbledore’s hands and into Harry’s. The little girl vanished. Dumbledore spun around, his mouth wide in astonishment.  
  
When he saw Harry, with Draco and Snape crowding in behind him, and Narcissa and Bellatrix after that, he sighed and stretched out a hand. His voice was calm, but it would have been more convincing if his hand hadn’t trembled. “Harry, listen to me, my dear boy. It isn’t what you think.”  
  
“Isn’t it?” Harry backed away from Dumbledore until he felt Draco standing behind him, his eyes fixed on the Headmaster’s face. The stone burned him with the same taint of oil and blood as ever, and now his scar really ached. There was no temptation to surrender to the guardian spirit of the Horcrux, luckily. “This is the real reason that you didn’t want to destroy the stone, isn’t it, sir? Because the spirit had got to you and was _using_ you somehow.” He spat the last words, trying to ignore the overpowering sense of betrayal he felt. He was ready to excuse Seamus falling to the guardian spirit. Why not Dumbledore?   
  
_Because Dumbledore is older and wiser, and he knows this is a Horcrux_ , the thought came back at once. _He should have realized what was happening and torn himself away from it, no matter what the cost._  
  
“The stone is not just a stone, Harry,” Dumbledore said. He began to move around the desk, but Harry bristled and, from the movements Harry could sense out of the corner of his eye, Dumbledore was at once the target of three wands, so he stopped. He still spoke with clarity and emphasis, though, and he still stared into Harry’s eyes as if he thought that could convince him. “It is the Resurrection Stone, one of the three Deathly Hallows.”  
  
“I’ve never heard of them,” Harry said. He clutched the stone closer to him, though it was starting to burn against his palm, too, like a brand. “I think you’re just making up plausible lies to get me to believe you, like Seamus.”  
  
Dumbledore looked startled. “I believed young Master Finnigan was cured. What has he done now?”  
  
“Do not let him distract you,” Snape breathed into Harry’s ear.  
  
“This isn’t about Seamus,” Harry said, with a short nod for Snape’s advice, though he had already figured that much out for himself. “This is about you. What does the Resurrection Stone do, if this is really it?” He rubbed his finger over the stone. The burning grew fiercer, and Harry held his hand still with a grimace. But he would rather burn all the skin on his palm off than let Dumbledore get hold of it again.  
  
“The Deathly Hallows are powerful magical objects,” Dumbledore said, in a voice that Harry recognized as meant to be low and soothing. _Well, he can speak like that all he wants, that doesn’t mean it’ll work_. “Supposedly, they were given by Death to a trio of brothers. The Elder Wand was one of them, the most powerful wand in the world—but every master of it dies when someone else tries to take it away. The third gift was a powerful Invisibility Cloak that did not decay or ravel away like most of them do after a short time. I have come to believe that your particular Invisibility Cloak was this one, Harry, and that is why it took such a powerful Dark spell to destroy it.”  
  
“The Resurrection Stone,” Harry said. He spoke through gritted teeth now; the stone was sending violent jolts of pain up his arm. Snape reached down as if he wanted to take it away from him, but Harry shifted sideways impatiently. Who knew what a bit of Voldemort’s soul could do to someone who had the Dark Mark? “Get to that.”  
  
“It brings back the spirits of the dead.” Dumbledore’s eyes were bright and haunted, yearning. “It allows one to talk to them. I swear, Harry, I was only speaking to the spirit of my sister, who died on my watch, and who is the reason that I have so rarely dared to exercise my power in the past.” He held up a hand that made Harry tense, but he only pressed it to his heart. “That is all I was doing.”  
  
Harry stared at him for a moment. Dumbledore, it seemed, hadn’t been lying. If these Hallows really existed—and neither Draco nor Snape had said anything to contradict it—then it _would_ take a more powerful spell to destroy the stone than it had to destroy the locket.  
  
But Harry could see the way Dumbledore went on staring at the stone, even though it was folded in Harry’s fingers and he couldn’t see it, and he began to doubt whether Dumbledore would really allow him to get away with destroying it.  
  
“I still think you shouldn’t have it,” Harry said, trying to control his breathing. “I’ll keep it now. I won’t be tempted to call back the spirits of my dead, since I didn’t really know my parents, and—” He cut off what he had been about to say. Yes, he felt as if he had friends dear enough now that the loss of his parents didn’t cut quite so deep, but that was none of Dumbledore’s business. “And I don’t know how it works,” he finished.  
  
“Harry.” Dumbledore’s voice was so quiet that Harry had to strain his ears to hear him. “You don’t know what the stone does for me. You don’t know what it means to me, to speak to Ariana again and know that she doesn’t blame me for her death.” His eyes were enormous, and he inched forwards one step and then another. Harry watched him warily. “You can’t—I can’t let you destroy the stone.”  
  
 _I was right, but I was wrong about the reason_. Harry tightened his grip on the stone again and shook his head, but he tried to keep his voice as soothing as Dumbledore’s had been a little while ago. “If I take the stone with me, sir, that should give you a chance to recover and think about what you’re saying. Voldemort probably made this stone a Horcrux because he knew that anyone who realized what it was wouldn’t want to destroy it. It was an extra level of protection. But I won’t be tempted the way you be. I can—”  
  
Dumbledore’s wand moved.  
  
But Snape and Draco and Narcissa had all moved at the same time. Snape conjured a shimmering shield in front of Harry that looked like a rainbow spreading in an oil slick, and whatever spell Dumbledore had hurled at him rebounded from it. Narcissa conjured a web like the one Bellatrix had used and caught Dumbledore’s arm with it, spinning him around and making his aim falter.  
  
And Draco screamed, “ _Expelliarmus_!” and Dumbledore’s wand soared from his hand to Draco’s own.  
  
Harry stood there in shock for a few minutes when it was over, his heart thundering in his ears. Then he swallowed and began to back up. Draco stepped up beside him, shaking all over and clutching Dumbledore’s wand as if it were a talisman.  
  
“You don’t understand what you’ve done.” Dumbledore was still trying to make his face normal, but desperation and despair leaked in around the edges of his expression. And maybe some rage, too, Harry thought. He’d got very good at recognizing rage when he was still around Uncle Vernon. “Harry—you _must_ give me back my wand, and you _must_ give me back the stone. I will give you an Unbreakable Vow that I am not under Voldemort’s influence, and the Vow would ensure that I died before I surrendered to him. But I must have my wand, to keep—to use in the war, and I must use the stone one more time.”  
  
“No,” Harry said. His tongue was thick in his mouth and his heart heavy with sorrow, but he forced his tongue to move anyway and say what had to be said. “No. The stone is too great a temptation to you. And the wand—I’m sorry, but I think Draco did the right thing.”  
  
“Too bloody right I did,” Draco said in a low voice.  
  
“You cannot stay in the school and keep my wand from me,” said Dumbledore, his eyes darkening. Still, he didn’t make a threatening motion. Harry thought he still really wanted to persuade them to hand the wand and the Horcrux back over. “You know that.”  
  
Narcissa laughed. Dumbledore’s gaze shifted to her, and his eyes narrowed. “I will revoke my protection of Mrs. Malfoy if you do not give me the stone back, Harry,” he said, “and I won’t care about the consequences.”  
  
A great blast of calm blew into Harry. No one else would do this, so he had to. That was as simple as it got.  
  
“You keep threatening that, sir,” he said. “And you say that you won’t fall under Voldemort’s influence, but I can feel it in this stone.” He winced absently, because his arm was throbbing now. _Good thing those years of starvation left me with a high pain threshold_. “It’ll snare you in the end.”  
  
“You can’t know that.” Dumbledore took another cautious step forwards, and now he wasn’t even pretending to look at Harry. He was searching hungrily for the stone with his eyes.  
  
“But I fear it,” Harry said, and half-turned so that he was speaking to Snape and Draco and Narcissa as well as Dumbledore. “And I think the wisest thing, given the danger that you’ll try to take the stone from me by force or tear it away by magic or wits, is for us to leave the school.”  
  
Another cool rush of resolution touched him the moment he spoke the words. Yes, this was the right decision. How were they supposed to kill Nagini or search for the other two Horcruxes if they were in school all the time? And he didn’t want to become a sitting target for Voldemort, especially the way he would once Voldemort figured out what had happened to Bellatrix. And the fewer people he managed to endanger with his presence, the better.  
  
 _Moving around. Free. That’s what I’ve wanted to do for the past year, and I was getting more and more bored with the things they were teaching me that didn’t have anything to do with defeating Voldemort. I only really paid attention in my Occlumency lessons with Draco and my dueling lessons with Snape._  
  
“You cannot be serious.” Dumbledore’s voice was so soft that Harry knew he must have really surprised him.  
  
“I can’t trust you, sir,” Harry said, with real regret. The shock on Dumbledore’s face said that at least part of him was still trying to do good, and that he would probably have struggled against his fascination with the stone if they had stayed. But Harry had assumed that Dumbledore had changed and was making a real effort before, and all the time he had been lying to Harry about the nature of the Resurrection Stone. “You’re always trying to get around my actions, and you think threats against people I’ve sworn to protect are the way to get me to cooperate. It’s best if we just go.”  
  
“There is no stronghold as safe against Voldemort as Hogwarts.” Dumbledore spoke earnestly, but Harry counted the seconds, and he only managed to look at Harry’s face for a count of five before his eyes flickered back towards the stone. “And Professor Snape is a marked Death Eater, and Draco and Mrs. Malfoy have Lucius hunting for them. Harry—this is madness. You _need_ safety. You _need_ protection.”  
  
Harry smiled sadly and flicked his fringe away from his forehead with his free hand. “Even if I consented to stay,” he said softly, “there’s still the problem of my own scar and what it means. Voldemort would come for me sooner or later. Yeah, I need protection, but I think Professor Snape and Draco and Mrs. Malfoy can provide that.” He hesitated, suddenly realizing that he hadn’t asked them. “If they’ll go with me.”  
  
Snape’s hand clenched down on his shoulder. Harry heard the rustling of Mrs. Malfoy’s gown as she moved closer to his back. Hardly daring to risk it, he glanced sideways at Draco.  
  
“You really _are_ an idiot,” said Draco, with admirable calm, although his cheeks were flushed, “if you think that I’m going to let you go.”  
  
“What about your friends?” Dumbledore insisted. “What about Sirius? He can’t visit you safely anywhere but Hogwarts.”  
  
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” Harry shifted so that Draco was at his back this time, because Dumbledore had moved around the desk whilst he was distracted. “I’ll manage everything, sir. Just stay here and get a new wand and be the Headmaster that Hogwarts needs you to be.”  
  
“The library, Harry,” Dumbledore said, his desperation showing this time in the way his words rushed along. “The research you need, and the spells you have to learn. Everything is here.”  
  
“I’m going to be sorry to leave,” Harry said. _But not nearly as sorry as I would have been a year ago, when I thought there was still some chance I could trust you and when I wouldn’t have thought Snape would come with me_. “But this is the way it has to be.”  
  
“I don’t want to lose this war,” Dumbledore said, speaking quietly but forcefully, as if he imagined that would catch and keep Harry’s attention when nothing had worked so far. “Harry…I am sorry.”  
  
Harry had been expecting it from the beginning, really, so he wasn’t surprised when Dumbledore touched something in his desk and lines of light began to cross from silver instrument to silver instrument, forming a cage of light. It seemed as though everyone was thinking of imprisoning him in cages or webs today.  
  
Snape barked out two short, sharp words that seemed to hurt his mouth, and certainly hurt Harry’s ears. He thought they were Dark Arts that Snape hadn’t trusted him to learn yet. The cage of light turned yellow, withered, and died before it got properly formed. For a moment, they were surrounded by what looked like falling leaves of ancient parchment.  
  
“That’s it,” Harry said, though his throat felt cramped and the corners of his eyes were stinging. “We’re going.”  
  
He backed carefully out the office door, leaving Snape and Mrs. Malfoy to face down Dumbledore. Draco was at his side, his eyes blazing like stars.  
  
As they got onto the moving staircase, Harry looked sideways at him and whispered, “Do you regret this?”  
  
Draco abruptly pushed him backwards, holding him against the twisting wall as he kissed Harry, his tongue and teeth scraping Harry’s mouth. Harry opened to him with a gasp, raising his free hand so that he could cradle the back of Draco’s head.  
  
“Tell me,” Draco whispered then, his voice so soft that Harry could barely hear it under the gallop of his heart. “Do I _taste_ like I regret it?” He took Harry’s hand out of his hair and brought it down to touch the distinct bulge at his groin. “Or feel it?”  
  
And Harry had to smile.  
  
*  
  
 _I knew a time would come when I would break with Albus. I did not imagine it would be like this._  
  
And Severus understood, as he looked at his old mentor, why Harry had questioned him so extensively and listened to him so patiently. The thought of parting with Dumbledore, and giving up the access to strength and wisdom that the Headmaster’s presence had always meant, was wrenching.  
  
But it had to be done.  
  
“If you are wise,” Severus told him, keeping his words as calm and simple as he could, “you will not try to contact the boy again, or to imprison him.” He backed out of the room with his eyes on Dumbledore’s face, floating Bellatrix away to the side and with them. But the Headmaster didn’t make a move. He simply stood still, shaking his head and frowning, as if he could not believe how soon it had all gone wrong.  
  
Narcissa followed Severus, her expression pale and serene in the gloom of the moving staircase. Severus cast a few spells that would warn him if Dumbledore tried to make the walls close in on them or any other feeble trick, and then studied her from the corner of his eye. She caught him doing it and faced him full on.  
  
“You don’t mind coming with us?” he had to ask. “You have more to lose than anyone else if we leave the walls of Hogwarts.”  
  
“I know that,” said Narcissa. “And where my son and the man who swore to give my protection go, there I will accompany them.”  
  
Severus was about to answer, but the staircase brought them around a corner then and in sight of—something he did not want to witness. He jerked his eyes away and determined to teach Draco how to cast more powerful privacy spells as soon as possible.  
  
 _Or perhaps simply the discretion to wait for the right time and place._  
  
But the disgust could not hide the way his hands shook or, he knew, the flush of excitement and adrenaline in his cheeks.  
  
He was going to war at last.


	26. Quest

  
Harry shivered as they reached the bottom of the moving staircase. The coolness that had gripped his mind when he confronted Dumbledore was leaving him now. And his hand felt as if it were on fire. He uncurled his fingers from around the stone with a little hiss.  
  
Snape heard him and strode at once to his side. He snatched the stone away before Harry could warn him, then flinched and conjured a bag of some silky-looking material to drop it into. “Your hand is burned,” he said in a harsh whisper as he began to move his wand in a pattern of crosses and stars above Harry’s palm. “Why didn’t you give up the stone earlier if it was hurting you so much?’  
  
“Because then Dumbledore might have taken it.” Harry was speaking in a whisper, too. He hissed again as the pain eased, and smiled to soothe Draco’s anxiety as Draco came up beside him and stared into his face. He shook his head. “Do you have a plan about where to go?” he asked, looking first at Snape and then at Mrs. Malfoy.  
  
“Is it not obvious?” Mrs. Malfoy said, maybe because Snape was still occupied with healing Harry’s hand. “In times of danger, the best place to go is family.”  
  
Harry tensed. “My family are Muggles. I doubt they’d welcome us.”  
  
Mrs. Malfoy smiled at him. “But you have a godfather, and I a cousin, who would accept you gladly under his roof,” she said. “I doubt that he will be pleased to see a Death Eater or a Death Eater’s wife and son, but you can make excuses for our presence. And I know certain defenses that will take hold firmly on a house where three people of Black blood are living.”  
  
Harry still wavered. “I don’t know if Sirius would really defy Dumbledore, if Dumbledore came and tried to get us back,” he admitted.  
  
“Just tell him that Dumbledore is part of the reason your hand looks like _that_.” Snape eyed him grimly. Harry looked down and winced a little when he saw the rising red puffiness on his palm, which spread in a half-circle from his thumb to cross beneath all his fingers. “And I think you underestimate Black’s loyalty.”  
  
“Sirius is plenty loyal,” Harry began hotly.  
  
“He doesn’t mean it that way, Harry.” Draco squeezed Harry’s shoulder and took his healthy hand calmingly in his, and Harry let himself be persuaded even though he was convinced Snape _had_ meant it that way. “And, well, give me some credit for observing my cousin, too. He’s hot-tempered and doesn’t like obeying the rules. And he loves you, but I don’t think he’s ever really forgiven Dumbledore for not standing up for him when the Ministry claimed he’d been the one who betrayed your parents. He’ll follow you rather than Dumbledore. Just give him a chance.”  
  
“I don’t like to ask him to do it,” Harry muttered. “He’s just getting back his mobility after what I did to him last year.”  
  
“What the Dark Lord did to him,” Mrs. Malfoy said unexpectedly. Harry craned his neck back so that he could see her. She was watching him with severe eyes. “My son has told me what happened then,” she said. “And you must not allow guilt to gain a toehold in your mind. It has too much of one already.”  
  
Harry blinked, but said, “All right. But the fact remains that he probably can’t join us, not when he’s hurt like that.”  
  
“Giving us shelter requires no physical effort of him.” Snape stepped away and tucked his wand into his sleeve, though he was still frowning at Harry’s hand. Harry tucked the hand awkwardly away, too. He wasn’t used to people being concerned when he was hurt, not after years at the Dursleys’. “But I think we should leave soon, before Dumbledore comes up with novel methods to delay us.”  
  
Harry took a deep breath. “All right. We’ll go to Sirius. But I wanted to see Ron and Hermione first, and try to figure out what to do about Seamus.”  
  
“You can’t still think that Finnigan is an innocent victim.” Draco dug his fingers into Harry’s arm as if to say that any such efforts would have to be personally approved by him.  
  
“Of course not,” Harry said. “Even if he started out that way, he’s been possessed for so long now that we have to consider him dangerous. But I’d like to know if he’s still here, or if Bellatrix contacted him before she called Professor Snape into the forest tonight. I’ll go to Gryffindor Tower so I can talk to Ron and Hermione and look in on Seamus—”  
  
“Then all of us are going to Gryffindor Tower,” said Draco.  
  
Harry scowled at them. “You can’t. Someone’s going to remember something that strange.”  
  
“And you’re leaving the school tonight, so what does it matter?” Snape raised his eyebrows. “I agree with Draco. We don’t intend to leave you to make your way in the world alone, and that includes not leaving you to make your way into any place that could be dangerous.”  
  
Harry tried to argue with them, but they wouldn’t back down, and Mrs. Malfoy finally said, “We’re wasting time. It was rumored when I was here as a student that the Headmaster could commune with the school. I don’t think we should remain and find out that it’s true, and if he might use Hogwarts as a barrier against us.”  
  
Harry sighed, but jerked his head in reluctant agreement. “Come on, then.”  
  
*  
  
 _I wonder if he really understands how this changes things_ , Severus thought, as he watched Harry speaking quietly to his friends through the portrait hole. Weasley had already sent Longbottom “casually” up to the sixth-year boys’ bedroom to see if Finnigan was in residence. Harry was pale and shaking his head in answer to some question of Weasley’s, which apparently upset the other boy. _If he realizes that Draco and I are coming with him because we are devoted to him, not just his cause, and that Mrs. Malfoy considers his offer of protection serious. He must be an adult before he really knows how to be one. Coping with the aftermath of abuse is not a way to encourage anyone to become an adult._   
  
But if Harry didn’t really understand, he was doing a good job of faking it. His voice never wavered, and he never raised it, not even when Weasley was trying to yell—in a whisper—that he and Granger deserved to come with Harry, too.  
  
“No,” Harry said finally, “for three reasons. First, I need you to stay here and do research inside the school for me. You’re the only ones I can trust to write to me about the books and the spells. I don’t trust Dumbledore anymore.”  
  
Weasley looked ready to argue some more, but Harry raised a hand, and Weasley actually fell silent in respect and listened for once. Perhaps he could tell that something fundamental had changed in Harry’s character in the last hour, Severus thought, and shifted his weight. Longbottom, suddenly appearing at Weasley’s shoulder, gave Severus a terrified glance, but managed to wait, sweating and shivering, for his turn to speak.  
  
“Second, I need you to keep an eye on Dumbledore for me,” Harry went on. “Make sure he’s a good Headmaster. If you don’t think he will be, or he seems to be falling down in his duties, then organize the defense of the school yourselves.”  
  
Weasley went pale, his freckles standing out on his face like specks of blood. “You want us to what?” he asked weakly.  
  
“You heard me.” Harry leaned forwards, his gaze unrelenting. “You and Hermione watched me when we trained in the Army last year. You know something about defense. You know how to tell good Defense teachers from bad ones—or at least I _hope_ you do, by now.” His words extorted a faint smile from Weasley. “And Dumbledore will probably talk to you because he wants to know what I’m doing and he’ll know that we’re in contact. That’ll give you a chance to observe him and maybe give him advice he could use.”  
  
Weasley licked his lips, and for a moment Severus thought he might refuse the post, especially when he looked at Draco and Narcissa with doubtful eyes. _Anyone would be better for traveling with Harry than Slytherins_ , said the thought barely hidden beneath the surface of his face. _I mean, really!_  
  
But in the end he said quietly, “All right. It’s a big responsibility, Harry, but we’ll try. What’s the third reason?”  
  
“Things won’t always stay the same,” Harry said. “I could need you to join our quest at a later date.” Severus smothered a snort. _Trust a Gryffindor to call it a quest rather than a war._ “And it’s better that you wait, so that any enemies tracking us will be taken off-guard by the appearance of new searchers.”  
  
Weasley grinned. “Yeah, I get that,” he said, and Severus recalled the rumor—he chose to classify it that way because it was based only on Minerva’s bragging—that the boy savored chess. “All right, mate. Take care of yourself.” He gave Harry a hug that Severus nearly started forwards to interrupt, until he saw that Weasley had not touched Harry’s barely-healed hand. “Hermione will be _so_ angry that she missed this.”  
  
“I didn’t want to wake her up,” said Harry, but he seemed to recognize it for the weak excuse it was and didn’t make Weasley repeat it. Instead, he turned to Longbottom.  
  
“Seamus isn’t there,” said Longbottom, “and all his things are gone, his trunk and his robes and his special pillows.” Severus shuddered faintly when Longbottom said the last words, and decided not to ask. There was no end of reasons that someone with the Dark Lord living in his head might have “special” pillows, but none that were pleasant to contemplate. “It looks as though he doesn’t mean to come back.”  
  
Harry sighed. “I was afraid of that.” He reached out suddenly and shook Longbottom’s hand. “I hope you’re all right, Neville,” he said. “Be safe and brave during the war, and remember that you’re a Gryffindor.”  
  
Longbottom seemed to grow taller as he stood there looking Harry dead in the eye. Harry had that effect on people he talked to, though Severus didn’t think the boy had realized it. “Yeah,” he said. “You, too.” He looked at the Slytherins gathered around Harry as doubtfully Weasley had done, but this time as if he thought that associating with people from another House was likely to make Harry forget that he was a Gryffindor.  
  
Harry smiled at him and turned away. Draco walked close to his side. Narcissa walked behind her son, with Bellatrix floating Disillusioned and imprisoned still beside her, but her eyes were more often on Harry’s head than on Draco’s or her prisoner. Severus suspected that she was changing her mind about more than one thing, after tonight.  
  
He took the chance to turn back to the Gryffindor boys. Weasley was watching Harry with a faintly wistful expression, but it changed when he saw Severus looking at him. Longbottom, of course, had worn a terrified expression during every moment since he came to the portrait hole, with the brief exception of his farewell to Harry.  
  
“You will do _exactly_ as he asks,” said Severus, “except that you will be even more suspicious and vigilant than he asks you to be. Do you understand?”  
  
“I was already planning on that before you even asked, Professor,” Weasley said, in a tone that barely hid the “greasy git.” He pulled Longbottom with him and stepped back, letting the portrait close.  
  
Severus snorted under his breath and turned to follow the small parade of his new allies.   
  
_And one prisoner._   
  
His gaze narrowed thoughtfully on the mind-trapped madwoman. Yes, he must do…something…about Bellatrix.  
  
*  
  
Draco looked around in quiet horror and did his best to keep his expression from showing what he really felt. His mother would certainly look dimly on any protest that he made. She might even say that he owed some respect to the home of his ancestors, the home where Harry’s Black, the heir of the family, had grown up.  
  
But it was _disgusting_. The house hadn’t been lived in regularly for years; it seemed that Black preferred to live elsewhere, and who wouldn’t? The paper was black where it wasn’t peeling, Draco hadn’t seen a mirror without spots since he entered the house, and there was an inexplicable but definitely present _smell_ that filled the corners of several rooms. And there was the screaming portrait of Black’s mother on the wall, which hadn’t shut up about having Harry and Professor Snape in “the home of my ancestors” until his mother had cast a spell that yanked the curtains over the picture shut.  
  
If Draco had been coming to live in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have rested until every room was clean, or at least a respectable number of them, and some other house-elf secured than the dirty, twisted creature who bowed and whined to them at every opportunity. But this was exile and a war camp, so he made due.  
  
He did allow himself one pleasure, though, which Harry didn’t discover until after they’d stayed up for hours, sitting around the kitchen table and discussing various strategies for identifying the Horcruxes and where they needed to go next. Harry paused in the doorway of his bedroom and blinked several times. Then he twisted around to look at Draco, who smiled innocently back at him.  
  
He felt a _little_ bad about pretending not to know what was going on when he saw the red rims of exhaustion around Harry’s eyes. But this would be good for Harry, too, Draco told himself. This way, he would be sure to sleep without nightmares, and Draco would give him moments of distraction and free time that he would never think to take for himself.  
  
“This is my room,” Harry said.  
  
“That’s right,” Draco said casually, and brushed past him.  
  
“But your things are in it.” Harry peered at Draco’s trunk, which sat at the foot of the bed, as if someone might have Transfigured his own trunk when he wasn’t looking.  
  
“That’s right,” Draco repeated, and opened the trunk to sort out pyjamas, whilst patiently waiting for Harry to catch on.  
  
“But—” Harry twisted his head, looking doubtfully over his shoulder towards the corridor. “We can’t share a bed,” he said at last.  
  
“I don’t see why not.” Draco shook out a pyjama shirt with an unnecessarily loud snap, to hide the fact that his hands were a bit unsteady. “I’ll be of age in a few weeks, and then you’ll be of age less than two months after that. We’ve been wanking and kissing each other for months now—”  
  
“Draco!” Harry hissed, and actually drew his wand to cast a privacy ward, even though Professor Snape and his mother, along with Black, were sleeping on the floor below and wouldn’t be listening anyway, given how tired they were themselves.   
  
“What? You were the one who kissed me in front of my mother at Christmas.” Draco took off his robes and the shirt and trousers he wore beneath them, beyond amused at the way Harry blushed and looked away. “If you don’t think she could guess the truth just from that, you’re giving her insultingly little credit for intelligence.”   
  
“But she won’t like it,” said Harry.  
  
“We’re soldiers and adults long before we were supposed to be,” Draco said. “My mother had to live through a war, too, even though she wasn’t on the same side that she is now. If anyone would object, it’s Professor Snape. And we’ll just keep out of his sight and out of his way.” He approached Harry speaking soothingly, though he’d already seen Harry’s eyes dart to the erection outlined against his pants. At last he stood in front of him, and Harry looked at him uncertainly. Yes, his eyes were bloodshot, but Draco could see that he wanted this more than he was afraid of it.  
  
“All right,” Harry said simply. Draco blinked, having expected more argument, but then he smiled. _Harry being tired is an advantage in this case._   
  
And then Harry stepped forwards and fastened his mouth to Draco’s as if kisses were the only thing that could make him feel better, and Draco forgot to think.  
  
Harry didn’t give him time to think, even if he’d retained the ability. His tongue was always moving, and his hands were moving, pushing Draco flat on the bed and yanking his pants off. And then he took Draco’s cock into his mouth, and choked, and snatched it back, and choked again, and turned, and came in from another angle, and used his tongue, and chuckled proudly, and said something that Draco couldn’t understand, and Draco thought hazily that he should tell Harry not to talk with his mouth full, except that it felt so _good_ as a little hum around his erection, and Harry sucked some more, and said something else, or maybe giggled, and Draco’s body jolted off the bed as though someone had stabbed him with a Lightning-Calling Curse, and he came into Harry’s mouth with a garbled gabble that probably had Harry’s name in it. Somewhere. At least Draco was reasonably certain that it didn’t have anyone else’s name in it.  
  
Harry sat back and said, “Well,” consideringly. His voice was hoarse, and his lips swollen in a way that hours of kisses couldn’t have made them, and Draco hauled him onto the bed and curved a leg around his hips, trapping him there.  
  
Harry laughed aloud. Draco felt some tight coil in him unwind that must have been tight from the moment they confronted Dumbledore, by the relief that its relaxing gave him. Harry reached up and rubbed his hand down the side of Draco’s face.  
  
“You don’t have to do that to keep me here,” Harry said, and moved on to stroking Draco’s neck and hair. Draco thought he could see Harry’s cock visibly throb, though it was still covered by tight cloth. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”  
  
“Doesn’t mean you won’t,” Draco whispered in spite of himself, his eyes lingering on the scar on Harry’s forehead.  
  
Harry’s face turned serious and he started to sit up, but Draco held him down again, kissed him urgently, and went to work showing Harry how much he was loved and appreciated by one person at least. The rest of the world could turn against him, the Dark Lord could put a _second_ piece of his soul in Harry, and Professor Snape could come stand in the doorway of the bedroom and stare disapprovingly all he liked, but Draco would never give Harry up.  
  
When Harry had come sighing and groaning into his mouth, Draco cast a simple Cleaning Charm with Dumbledore’s wand—which buzzed oddly in his hand, as if it didn’t like to be used for such a simple task—and then dragged the covers over them. Harry rolled over and dropped his head wearily onto Draco’s shoulder.  
  
Pleased that there wouldn’t be an argument about them sleeping in the same bed tonight, Draco closed his eyes.  
  
*  
  
“Snape?”  
  
Severus had to pause a bit to savor the moment when he heard Bellatrix’s voice. That was the first word she had said since the removal of the mind-imprisoning spell, even though Severus had taken it off five minutes ago. Instead, she had stared around the room where he had her—a chamber off the main attic at the top of the house—and then stared at him in silence.  
  
And she had pretended to pay no attention to the cauldron and the vials waiting patiently on the table behind Severus.  
  
But now her eyes were straying to them, and her voice betrayed her.  
  
“Yes, Bella?” Severus inquired mildly, as he raised his wand and conjured a burst of heat into all five of the vials at once. They sparkled and blazed as the inner fire caught on the facets of the glass, and the potions began to bubble and circulate. Two of them changed color from deep red to deep blue. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, and Severus saw a spasm cross behind her expression. Yes, she knew what he intended to do.  
  
“There is still time to come back to our Lord,” she said, her voice recovering a hint of its old croon. There had been a time when Severus had feared and almost worshipped her, when she was powerful and beautiful and that voice made his blood quicken. _Almost_ , she might have become his substitute for Lily.  
  
But then he had seen her torture a Muggle for the first time, and any possibility of an enchantment like that overpowering him was destroyed forever.   
  
And now Azkaban had happened, and the last traces of her beauty were gone. Severus smiled thinly at her pride and said, “No. I truly left him long ago, though I promised myself it would be only a temporary separation. But now I have no need to spy on him for the Headmaster.”  
  
“Then there is no obstacle to prevent your coming back to us.” Bellatrix widened her eyes until her eyelashes almost touched her brows.  
  
Severus shook his head and chuckled. “You really do not understand, do you, Bellatrix?” But he knew she didn’t. She was mad, and devoted to the Dark Lord past the reach of reason even if she had still been sane. And so she looked at him now, patient, waiting for a “real” answer to her question.  
  
“I am loyal to a different trust now,” he said simply, and cast another spell. Two of the vials rose, uncorked themselves, mixed their content in the air into a shining liquid, and dumped it straight into the cauldron. Bellatrix tried, but she couldn’t prevent herself from looking towards the motion. Though it was scarcely a flicker of the right eye, Severus accounted it a victory.  
  
“You don’t need to be,” Bellatrix said, and looked back at him. All traces of fear vanished from her face. There was only the passion of a fanatic who wanted to make a convert. Severus watched her sardonically, wand balanced in his hand as he conducted a stirring rod into the cauldron and mixed the potions more thoroughly together. Meanwhile, Bellatrix leaned forwards until Severus thought he could hear the invisible magical bonds holding her creak. “The Dark Lord would still welcome you. All he needs is indisputable proof that you’ve regained your old loyalty. Harry Potter’s head would do that.”  
  
Severus smiled at her. The sudden rage that her comment had inspired showed only in the way he flicked his wand and murmured, “ _Maturo cordis_.”  
  
Bellatrix shrieked and strained against her bonds again as her heart quickened its pace, throbbing and leaping as if it were fit to burst. Severus knew well the crushing pain that came with the spell; the Dark Lord had used it on him more than once. One couldn’t die of it unless the spell was maintained for minutes, but it made one _feel_ as if death were reaching out and clutching the heart. It was fit suffering for Bellatrix. Severus turned back to the cauldron and organized the last mixing of the potions.  
  
By the time he turned back around again, Bellatrix was staring at him with the fervid eyes of an aroused predator. Severus arched a brow. “There is information in your head that I need,” he said.  
  
“I would never betray my Lord.” And Bellatrix spat on the floor after she made that announcement, melodramatic creature that she was.  
  
“I did not plan to ask you if you wanted to _volunteer_ that information.” Severus returned her gesture with a smile. He would have done something worse than that to her if she had spit on the floor of his home, but Black’s dirty house deserved little respect.  
  
“Veritaserum would be quicker,” said Bellatrix, staring now openly at the cauldron. She had a kind of crazed courage, Severus had to acknowledge. When she decided that something couldn’t be ignored any longer, then she wouldn’t try to ignore it.  
  
“But takes too long to brew,” Severus said. “And requires ingredients I do not have. And is not painful enough.”  
  
Bellatrix lifted her head haughtily, no fear visible in her face. If it had been, Severus knew, it would have been solely fear that Severus might succeed in making her betray her Lord, not fear for her own physical safety. “I will remember that you don’t have the ingredients for Veritaserum,” she said. “I’m sure my Lord will find that information valuable when I escape.”  
  
“My old Lord does need better servants,” Severus said, mock-sadly, and sent the stirring rod into the cauldron a second time. This time, a violent bubbling succeeded. Bellatrix tested her bonds again, but otherwise showed no reaction as Severus scooped up a ladle of the potion—now a bright green—and approached her with steady steps. When he got close, he cast a spell that kept her head still and froze her with her mouth open. Bellatrix was still rolling her eyes madly and trying to bite when he tipped the ladle into her mouth.  
  
Severus did release the freezing spells when he had got safely out of the way. It would be no fun if Bellatrix had to keep her head still whilst the potion worked.  
  
Bellatrix promptly began to scream. Severus smiled. The potion burned the throat on the way down, so painfully that cries were forced from the most stoic, but that was not its purpose or main effect.  
  
A moment later, Bellatrix froze of her own free will and whimpered. Severus leaned back against the table and sipped a cup of tea that he had conjured earlier in anticipation.  
  
Bellatrix bent over, writhing, and began to make a complicated sound like sneezing and vomiting combined. Silver liquid like that which would fill a Pensieve oozed out of her eyes and mouth, dripping to the floor. Severus flicked his wand, and at once the liquid lifted and flew across the room, into a Pensieve that he had standing ready.  
  
Bellatrix went on retching up the relevant memories, the effort sending flashes of what Severus knew was exquisite pain through her nostrils, eyes, and head. The pain would get so bad that she would be begging for death by the time it was done. Severus sipped his tea again and was content.  
  
After a short time, however, he began to think that there was another noise under Bellatrix’s screams, one that interrupted his enjoyment of the process. Annoyed, and expecting to see the dirty house-elf clamoring to clean the attic just now, Severus glanced off to the side.  
  
Instead, he found Harry standing there, staring at Bellatrix in horror.  
  
Severus stiffened. He had—not intended Harry to see this. But he could hardly pretend that he had not had something to do with it, when he had an empty cauldron and was alone in the room with Bellatrix. He nodded and cast a spell that would silence Bellatrix’s screams. “Was there something you needed, Harry?” he asked gently.  
  
Harry spun to face him. His eyes were already bloodshot with exhaustion, but now they seemed to have gone further red with anger.  
  
“You’re _torturing_ her,” he said, and his voice was loud and so angry that Severus winced in spite of himself. For a moment, he thought that he was hearing Harry’s voice after he had broken into his memories. It was that loud, that accusing and blank. But now there was disappointment in it, too.  
  
Severus caught his breath. _Could hurting Bellatrix cost me Harry’s trust again?_  
  
And that was not to be borne, because he had labored so hard to gain that trust back. It was intolerable to think that he could lose it again by means of a simple pain potion, one he had never meant Harry to find out about.   
  
_And perhaps you should have thought it through more deeply when you realized this would involve lying to him._  
  
“I’m simply getting information from her,” Severus said, and directed more of the silver memory-liquid to the Pensieve without taking his gaze off Harry. “I don’t have the means of brewing Veritaserum here.”  
  
Harry continued to stare at him with big, betrayed eyes. He flinched when Bellatrix screamed again, and then seemed to shake himself out of a trance.  
  
“ _Stop_ it,” he said. “Make her stop hurting.”  
  
“The potion cannot be stopped once it has begun,” Severus said.  
  
“Bollocks,” said Harry, and took a step forwards that Severus actually flinched from. Harry, like the Slytherin he sometimes resembled, noted the flinch and followed it up immediately. “You’re a Potions master,” he said. “You can do it. I know you can.”  
  
Severus flinched again, and sighed, and waved his wand. The potion came flooding out of Bellatrix in a violent waterfall, taking all the orifices of her body as its quickest exit points. Severus wrinkled his nose at the thought of the mess he would find under her robes, between her legs.  
  
Bellatrix slumped in her bonds, coughing and crying. Harry watched her with a horrifying expression of pity, then turned and looked accusingly at Severus. “You could have used Legilimency if you really wanted to,” he said in a low voice. “I know you could. And maybe it would have hurt, but it would have hurt less than this.”  
  
Severus looked away.  
  
“Why didn’t you use it?” Harry continued.  
  
“Bellatrix has some skills as an Occlumens,” Severus murmured. “It is possible that I would come out with inaccurate or incomplete information.”  
  
“Draco keeps saying how good you are,” Harry muttered intently. “The best Occlumens ever. You can do things that aren’t in the books, he said. So you could find out the truth. It would just take some more digging.”  
  
Severus clenched his fists. “If she was free and in control of the situation, she would not return your pity.”  
  
“I don’t care,” Harry said. “We should be better than that. I didn’t want you to take revenge on Seamus with that potion we brewed in my second year, either. I don’t want you to hurt her like this.”  
  
“War is hard,” Severus said. “There will be sacrifices to be made. The sooner you can learn that, the better—”  
  
“Treating a prisoner, someone who can’t defend herself, badly doesn’t have to be one of them,” Harry interrupted. “I promise, if I’m ever faced with a situation where I have to do something bad and painful for the war, then I’ll do it without hesitating. But you could have done something else in this case.”  
  
Severus inclined his head, feeling as if he bent it against the weight of gravity. “I—apologize,” he said. “You are indeed right that I could have done other things.”  
  
“Good,” Harry said, drawing in his breath as if he, too, had been worried about the outcome of their confrontation. “Now, why didn’t you do them?”  
  
“Because I wanted to make her pay.” Severus found that he had to look at Bellatrix as he spoke. He could not bear—not yet—to see the light dim and darken in Harry’s eyes as he realized that Severus wasn’t a good person after all. “Because I wanted to make her suffer as I suffered, for months under her fear spell.”  
  
“That—I can understand that,” said Harry. “There are times that I want to make the Dursleys suffer like that.”  
  
Severus looked quickly at him, not sure which was strongest: his surprise, his joy that Harry would want to take vengeance on the Dursleys after all, or his hope that this need not mean the end of all confidence between them.  
  
Harry looked at Severus much as he had looked at Dumbledore during the night of the confrontation in the Headmaster’s office. “But I know better,” he said. “And I have to resist the temptation. That means you do, too. You’re an adult. You should know better.”  
  
Severus swallowed hard. It felt like swallowing a mouthful of scalding bile. And if Harry thought the temptation to torture Bellatrix for her crimes had been great, he would have been horrified to know how much Severus wanted to burst out bitterly against him now.  
  
 _Do you know what my life has been like_? he wanted to say. _My only friend was murdered the night that you received your scar. I always knew that I couldn’t really trust Dumbledore, but that doesn’t mean it hurt less to see it proven. I have tried to protect you and Draco, and I haven’t even been successful in that. Not everyone can be as noble-hearted as you are, and a good thing, too, or we wouldn’t win this war._   
  
But Harry gazed at him with calm, clear eyes, and Severus realized that he wouldn’t accept any of those excuses. Worse, he would think less of Severus for making them.  
  
Severus had always been good at living with the inevitable, the things that he couldn’t change or avoid. And this was another of them. At the moment, Harry had the power to influence his reactions, however little he liked admitting that. He had to do what Harry wanted in order to live with himself later.  
  
 _It isn’t a loss_ , he consoled himself as he nodded. _You’ll still get something you want more than you want Bellatrix’s pain out of it. You’ll gain his trust back._   
  
“I—know that,” he said. “Sometimes. But it’s not something I think about often.”  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to think about it for Bellatrix’s sake, or for the sake of pure abstract good,” Harry said, his eyebrows rising. “I would expect you to think about it for your sake, so you can be a better person than that.”  
  
Severus stared back for long, silent moments, not knowing how to respond.  
  
 _He thinks I’m a better person than that._   
  
He tried not to stammer as he said, “I will remember that, Harry. I—am I forgiven?”  
  
Harry nodded. “Like I said, it’s something I can understand myself. And you stopped when I asked you to, which you wouldn’t have done if you were really evil, like Voldemort.” He shuddered a little, which made Severus hope he was coming to his senses as far as speaking the name was involved, and then turned and studied Bellatrix. “We still need something to do with her after you read her memories, though,” he added, as if to himself.  
  
“I will Transfigure her,” Severus offered. “I learned something about human Transfiguration when I tried to become an Animagus. I never succeeded in changing myself, but I could manage to turn her into a butterfly or something equally harmless.”  
  
Harry stared at him in turn, and Severus realized that he was trying to decide whether to trust him.  
  
And then Harry smiled, and the tension eased. “A butterfly?” he chuckled. “That’s perfect. If she tries to beat me over the head with her wings, it won’t even hurt.”  
  
Severus smiled back, and he might have moved forwards to embrace Harry, except that Bellatrix recovered her senses enough to scream and threaten them then, and he did not want her to see such a private moment.  
  
But it was worth even the moments when Harry had looked at him like he was tainted, to know that they had taken the first and largest step towards repairing their trust.  
  
*  
  
Draco liked the bustle that was spreading through Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. Nothing could make up for having to live in such dingy surroundings for several months, whilst they waited for he and Harry to be of age and the Trace to come off their wands, but researching Horcruxes and ways to destroy them came close.  
  
Black had accepted Harry’s explanation of Dumbledore’s behavior and why they’d left the school without a blink, as Draco had known he would. Honestly, he didn’t know why Harry was so inclined to stumble over his own tongue when he asked for help from people who loved him.   
  
_Unless he really can’t see the way they love him._   
  
Draco reckoned that was possible, especially now that Harry had his nose in a book about Horcruxes most of the time.  
  
They had discovered a few books like that in the Black library, hidden behind other volumes. Black claimed not to have known he had them, and Draco believed him. The library was huge, and there were too many books that hadn’t been catalogued—or maybe the dirty house-elf, Kreacher, had pulled them off the shelves and hugged them to his chest a while before leaving them scattered. Harry took to reading like he was sharing a soul with Granger and regularly owled queries to his friends.  
  
Professor Snape was researching ways to combat Nagini’s poison and strength when they finally had to confront her. He had learned little from Bellatrix, who was too mad to retain much pertinent information and who’d been obsessed with her hunt for Harry for the past several months, but what he had learned about the Dark Lord’s snake concerned him. Draco’s mother was inquiring, in a polite dance which required several letters, of the Lestrange relatives that she thought she could negotiate with, in order to try and find out whether a Horcrux might indeed have passed through their vaults and into Finnigan’s hands. Harry read and absorbed as much about Horcruxes as one human being could in the course of a day. And Black exercised and tested his crippled hand and twisted spine constantly, as if he really believed he might be well enough to go with them if he just pushed his limits.  
  
In the meantime, Draco helped Harry study Horcruxes, and work off any excess tension in bed at night. So far, neither his mother nor Professor Snape had said a thing about he and Harry sharing a bedroom—not that Draco intended to listen if they did. He also studied the Switching Spells that Harry said had been necessary to destroy the locket, intent on finding out how to modify them as Dumbledore had done. Harry could remember very little about the individual modifications, unfortunately.  
  
And he had a project of his own, which he worked on when no one else was looking.  
  
Dumbledore’s wand was _strange_. Draco had recognized the wood at a glance as elder wood, and he knew it had an extremely powerful core by the way it hummed. But it shouldn’t respond so well to him. For one thing, it was unfamiliar to him, even if he had gained its loyalty by stealing it from Dumbledore, and for another, Dumbledore’s magic was what had really given its power.  
  
Maybe.  
  
Draco was starting to think that it was the wand that had made Dumbledore formidable, and not the other way around.  
  
He tried casting spells on the wand using his own wand, and then using Harry’s when Harry didn’t need it. Each time, the wand was unharmed, even against the spell that had destroyed Harry’s first wand, the holly one. It sparked and glittered and puffed like a volatile potion, then settled back into place without a mark. It was even difficult to move it when Draco intended to throw it at the wall, as if the wand could sense his intent and rejected any harm that might come to it.  
  
But if he wanted to pick it up, then the wand was completely tame in his hand, responding like a Kneazle kitten to petting.  
  
It was a mystery, and one that Draco wasn’t entirely sure he could solve, because he didn’t really know where to begin. Was the wand’s resistance a property of the wand itself? Of the wood? Of the core? Of unknown protection charms that Dumbledore had cast on it long ago? (If so, then Draco thought he was rather stupid not to cast a spell that would have protected him against being disarmed).   
  
But that was exactly the kind of question that Draco had wanted to become an inventor to answer. And so he happily worked on the wand through the long still evenings of waiting and researching and deciding.  
  
The idyll came abruptly to an end on the thirtieth of July, when Harry received a letter from Weasley that made him stagger as he stared at it and Draco move immediately to his side.  
  
*  
  
 _Dear Harry,  
  
First, you need to know that Hermione and me are safe. We left the Burrow to go to Hogwarts and do research by Dumbledore’s special invitation. I think he wants to keep us close in case we know anything that will lead him to you.  
  
But there was an attack on the Burrow yesterday. It was Death Eaters. Mum’s certain of that, since they were wearing black robes and white masks.  
  
Bill was there (did I tell you that he’s getting married to Fleur Delacour, that part-Veela girl who was in the Triwizard Tournament? I don’t think I did), and he was able to fight them off, with Dad and Charlie. But he was injured, and so was Mum. Dumbledore has them all in an Order hiding spot right now; he didn’t entirely trust that someone at St. Mungo’s might not be a Death Eater spy._   
  
Harry closed his eyes. Mrs. Weasley, who had given him the first motherly hug he could remember and cooked him food as if she were _glad_ to see him eat. And though he’d only briefly met Bill a few times on his holidays at the Burrow or when Bill came to visit his brothers at school, he’d liked him.  
  
Ron didn’t say how badly they were injured. Harry had to take a deep breath, content himself with the fact that Hermione would have written him a second letter if they were in danger of dying, lean briefly against Draco’s shoulder, and read on.   
  
_And Dumbledore’s calling the Order of the Phoenix together. Apparently the Death Eaters are becoming more open about attacking again; I reckon You-Know-Who’s given up on hoping you die before he starts the war properly. They’re leaving the Dark Mark all over the place, and they’ve already killed one or two important Ministry officials.  
  
Bill says he remembers the Death Eater who hurt him—until Charlie got him in the back—stooping over him and smiling at him. His breath smelled like rotting meat, Bill said, and he whispered, “You’re going to live. You’re the one who’ll tell Harry Potter that we’ll attack every single person and place he loves until he gives himself up to our Lord.”  
  
Hermione got word this morning that there was an attack on her parents’ house, too. But she’d already told them to move, and they’re out of the country and staying with relatives. The Death Eaters destroyed the house, though.   
  
I don’t know what to do, mate. I feel so_ helpless _here, and part of me wants to fight with the Order since I’m of age. But I know that you need to know things about You-Know-Who’s artifacts, so I also want to stay here. Most of all, I wish I was with you._  
  
Harry closed his eyes and sighed. He wondered if it would be for the best after all, if he had taken Ron and Hermione with him—but he doubted that it would have kept their families from being attacked.   
  
_Hermione says to tell you that she thinks the locket Dumbledore destroyed was Slytherin’s locket, with the S on it and everything. She suggests that you should look for powerful artifacts that belonged to the Founders. Maybe something that was important to Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff or Gryffindor was on You-Know-Who’s list, too. Or maybe he just likes powerful magical artifacts in general, with what you told me about the stone. Hermione says that the design you described on the ring indicates that the ring belonged to a family called Peverell and not to Slytherin’s family, by the way, so you could research them, too._  
  
Hermione’s handwriting took over, then, and she listed each Founder with a neat list of important artifacts beside them.  
  
 _Gryffindor: Sword of Gryffindor  
Sorting Hat  
Wand? (people dispute whether Gryffindor’s wand still exists, since it was supposedly destroyed in a duel his grandson fought)  
  
Hufflepuff: Portrait of Hufflepuff (removed from Hogwarts years ago)  
Crystal ball  
Miniature model in crystal of the Hufflepuff common room  
Jade sculpture of a badger with topazes for eyes (last seen in the possession of Halifax Rosier)  
  
Ravenclaw: Set of history books  
Portrait of her daughter?? (sorry, Harry, but I can’t figure out whether this existed, either)  
Tiara_  
  
And Harry went still, because a memory was chasing around his head but he couldn’t _reach_ it. He thought that he’d thought something about one of those items once, or heard something, but no context would come to him. Nothing but that maddening familiarity, the same kind he felt sometimes when he was staring at an exam he was certain he’d studied for and trying to recall a particular potions ingredient.  
  
He slammed the letter down and turned to Draco. “Use Legilimency on me,” he said.  
  
Draco blinked at him. “What?”  
  
“Use Legilimency on me,” Harry snapped. “I know that there’s something in my head, a memory connected with this letter—” he waved the letter, and Draco took it from him and frowned at it “—but I don’t know which memory it is, and I don’t know which word or artifact it’s connected to, and I _need_ to.”  
  
Draco read the letter through twice, then hesitated. Harry tapped his foot impatiently on the floor. “Come on, Draco. I’ll do my best not to block you. I _want_ you to get this memory out of my head so we can have a look at it.”  
  
Draco hesitated again, then spoke in a gentle voice. “I don’t think I’m a good enough Legilimens to locate a memory like that, Harry. It would require searching all through your mind on multiple levels, and for recollections of _words_. You know I’m no good at that. I’m much more able to search for images and specific memories that I know we shared.”  
  
“Well, search for that, then,” Harry snapped. “Maybe the moment when I used the Sword of Gryffindor in the Chamber of Secrets will turn up something.”  
  
Draco faced him and put his hands on his shoulders. “I think I would just waste time,” he said quietly, “and for as intensive a search as this would need, I’d probably end up aggravating the wounds in your mind that the Dark Lord left. You need someone who’s a better Legilimens than me, and who can search your memories based on words.”  
  
Harry swallowed. “You’re talking about Snape.”  
  
“I am.” Draco’s eyes were kind, but his hands clamped down on Harry’s shoulders and didn’t relent. “I know that you still don’t trust him fully, but he could do this, and he’ll be gentle enough not to probe into your wounds.”  
  
“But if I don’t trust him, and I don’t,” Harry said flatly, breaking away, “then I’ll fight him in spite of myself. And that means that he’ll hurt me.” He shook his head. Despite the starvation and the pain in his scar that he’d got used to over the years, the memory of his headache after Snape had ripped memories out of his mind was still one of his foulest. “I can’t do it, Draco.”  
  
“Do you want to uncover a potential clue to one of the Horcruxes or not?” Draco demanded.  
  
Harry winced, and Draco immediately reached out to him, his face pale. “Harry, I didn’t mean—”  
  
“You did mean it like that,” Harry said, “and you’re right. And I have to trust Snape sooner or later.” He had as good as admitted that he trusted Snape the other night, he thought, when he caught him torturing Bellatrix and then accepted his assurance that he wouldn’t do it again. And if he trusted Snape to be gentle reading memories from the mind of a prisoner who couldn’t defend herself, then why shouldn’t he trust Snape to be gentle with him? He had been present when Voldemort made the wounds, and he ought to know something about them. And he had more reason to treat Harry gently than he had to treat Bellatrix.  
  
 _And_ , Harry thought, with the cold tone that he was sometimes capable of taking lately, _he won’t want to do anything new to make me turn my back on him. Yes, of course he’ll be gentle._   
  
“I’ll ask him,” he said.  
  
Draco didn’t press him further on the point, talking idly about Dumbledore’s wand as they ate lunch. Then he took Harry upstairs and gave him a spectacular blowjob that made Harry feel as if he had dissolved into soft, melting pieces of chocolate stuck together at the corners. When he came back to himself, he rolled over, flung an arm across Draco’s chest, and kissed him as soundly as he could.  
  
Draco gave him a smug smile back, but didn’t say anything. By the time Harry had cleaned himself up, put on his robes, and got up to find Snape, he was asleep, his breath fluttering the pieces of blond hair that clung above his mouth.  
  
*  
  
Harry had shown him Weasley’s letter and explained as well as he could. And now he was standing in front of Severus, his hands in his pockets, his wand on the table so that he couldn’t accidentally use it in his defense. His face was pale and he looked as if he would rather have been anywhere else, but his eyes were fixed steadily on Severus’s, and he didn’t run out the door when he heard the word, “ _Legilimens_.”  
  
Severus knew the gift that had been given to him. And he wasn’t about to treat Harry with even a tenth of the disregard that he’d given the woman who was now a black butterfly fluttering around a transparent cage, now and then pausing to beat its wings angrily against the glass.  
  
No, he walked into Harry’s mind as if it were a room full of delicate brewing equipment, and spent some time constructing muffling barriers that would insulate his presence. He put them around memories that he had no intention of disturbing—those of Harry’s “childhood” with the Dursleys—and then backed away with all the effect of a breeze. He did take the time to check on Harry then, but Harry was breathing in soft contentment, his eyes closed. He had a faint line between his brows, but no grimace of pain.  
  
Fortified, Severus began to move through Harry’s memories of his every interaction with the Dark Lord over the past six years. He was sure that the clue Harry wanted would be somewhere within those memories. Who else would have any reason to mention Horcruxes in his hearing? Perhaps Dumbledore had said something, but Severus didn’t believe the old man so lost to sense that he wouldn’t have given them _some_ clue before they left the school. Severus only intended to search those memories if he found no clues here.  
  
He winced as he watched a younger Harry talk with the Dark Lord’s spirit before the basilisk and battle the form of him implanted in Quirrell. He wondered that the boy did not bear more scars than he did. But as far as he could judge from the emotional tenor of Harry’s mind surrounding the memories, he was calm about them, and a trifle impatient that Severus hadn’t yet found what he was looking for.  
  
Nothing either spirit said could be considered a clue, and the younger Harry had been too emotionally involved in the battles to notice even if one had appeared, Severus judged. Quietly, he withdrew and turned to the time that Harry had been Portkeyed to the Dark Lord’s presence.  
  
Harry’s mind alternated with lightning flashes of paralyzing fear and breathless defiance as Severus walked through those memories, and he winced again. _How is it that he goes through these emotions without ripping himself apart? I knew something only a little more violent in my grief for Lily, and that has damaged my life to a considerable extent._   
  
But again it seemed normal for Harry, and as much as he would have liked to linger and watch the way he had helped Harry escape played over several times, Severus pulled away and turned to the moment he had most dreaded investigating.  
  
Harry’s mind vibrated like a struck bell as Severus began to step around the missing memories, the holes that the Dark Lord’s possessing presence had opened in his thoughts. Severus had to pause several times to ride out tremors that affected him like earthquakes in his present position, and to remind Harry, as calmly as he could, of what he was doing there, and that Harry himself had given him permission. Harry seemed to listen to or otherwise sense his warnings, which was further proof that Draco was a good Occlumency tutor for him. The tremors calmed at last, and Severus proceeded.  
  
The Dark Lord stretched across Harry’s mind like a set of drying strips of greasy meat. Severus had assumed that it was useless to try and explain the taint Bellatrix’s fear spell had left in his mind, but he wished now that he’d been more forthcoming. Harry would have understood after all.  
  
Severus found nothing in the simple memories of the moments when the Dark Lord had first taken over Harry’s mind, or in the recollections of the nightmares. So he turned to the largest memory-hole and, with reluctance, stretched out a mental “hand,” of the kind Draco had used to lend him the strength to resist Bellatrix.  
  
There was a method that could be used to find lost memories, but it was tricky and delicate. Severus would have preferred more time and even more permission than he had received.   
  
But needs must, and so he stepped into the pit in the center of the most likely place: the short time when the Dark Lord had been active and guiding Harry towards the Room of Requirement. He had reasoned “aloud” to himself, as he had a habit of doing in moments of extreme energy, and he might have mentioned something about the Horcruxes.   
  
Severus dropped into the slime, reducing his mental presence to a bare whisper. Harry still started and shuddered as the wound was disturbed, and Severus knew he would be experiencing the same kind of headache that an assault with Legilimency often brought on. He winced again and vowed to hand over his strongest pain potion to Harry the moment he was out of here.  
  
Down through muck and throbbing Dark magic. It was no wonder these wounds were not healing, Severus thought grimly. He had forgotten—he had had little occasion to study the subject for his own use—how much an invading possessive spirit was like Dark magic.   
  
_You should have studied it in the past year, if only for Harry’s sake._  
  
But both of them had ignored the wounds in his mind as much as possible. They had evidence that it had not permanently incapacitated Harry and that he had lost few important memories, and that, Severus thought, had been enough for both of them. They had acted as if not mentioning it meant it hadn’t happened.  
  
Now Severus was tearing through one of the fragile scabs, and he knew the wound needed to be fully purged and healed. Although whether Harry would let him into his head again, after the pain _this_ lancing would cause, he could not say. Draco might be a better choice, if he had the time to study Mind-Healing.  
  
Finally, Severus saw a glowing trace on the wall of the slimy cavern, and he altered his way towards it. In a moment, he was hearing the Dark Lord’s voice, as sibilant and mocking as always, speaking around him.  
  
 _If others have found the Room of Hidden Things, the hiding place is insecure. I must remove the tiara._  
  
And Severus rose to the surface of Harry’s mind like a dolphin rescuing a swimmer, radiant with triumph, but mostly concerned to get out of the depths as soon as he possibly could.  
  
*  
  
Harry’s head was throbbing.  
  
 _And you didn’t expect that, after letting Snape into your mind?_   
  
But Harry knew that was unfair. He suspected that the only way for Snape to find the truth was to cause him unendurable pain—because that was the way his Occlumency was, or because the memory was so deeply buried.   
  
He _did_ wish it could be different, though. By the time he felt Snape shift and slither back out of his head, his vision was filled with hazy red flashes of light and he’d dropped to his knees. The pain pressed hard against the skin of his temple, and Harry thought that he knew how a drum felt when it was being pounded.  
  
And then Snape was back in his body again, striding away from him and coming back with a glass vial holding a swirling blue potion. Harry scowled doubtfully at it.  
  
“This is a headache potion,” Snape said. “Stronger than normal, or you would recognize the color.”  
  
Harry froze. Snape’s voice was gentle, and he spoke slowly, as if he knew that Harry wasn’t up to following quickly barked words right now. For Snape, that was almost as good as an apology.  
  
Harry took a chance and swallowed the potion; he certainly couldn’t follow his preferred course and pretend nothing was wrong. The headache vanished with such suddenness that he gasped aloud. _Why couldn’t I have had something like that every time I had a vision from Voldemort? I’ll definitely need to learn to brew that potion._  
  
“What’s wrong?” Snape demanded. “What has happened?”  
  
Harry blinked at him for a moment, wondering what was wrong with _Snape_ , before he understood. He’d heard the gasp and mistaken it for a return of pain. His face was pale, and his hand hovered above his wand as though he were about to draw it and blast curses at the shadows of Voldemort that still lived in Harry’s head.   
  
But his eyes told the real story. They were wide with fear and anger, and Harry knew that was over _him_ , for _him_.  
  
His last distrust of Snape, his fear that Snape deliberately wanted to cause him pain, withered on the vine.  
  
“Nothing,” he said, as quietly as Snape had spoken the initial words. “I was just startled when the headache went.” He hesitated, because there were some steps too big to be taken yet, but then stepped forwards and caught Snape’s hand to shake. Snape was too surprised to either resist or stop him. “Thank you, sir.”  
  
Snape leaned down and stared into his face. Harry looked calmly back, and tried as hard as he could to project reassurance through his eyes.  
  
In the end, Snape seemed to find what he needed. His shoulders relaxed, and he said, “I shall be sure to bring some potions like this with us when we go hunting.”  
  
“You found the information, then?” Harry demanded. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten the main purpose of their Occlumency, even for a moment. “What is the thing, and where is it?”  
  
“Ravenclaw’s tiara,” Snape said calmly. “And in Hogwarts.”  
  
Harry was fairly certain that his own smile mirrored Snape’s shark-like grin.


	27. Tiara

  
“Is it really safe to go back into the school, with Dumbledore controlling it?” Draco had a grave impression on his face, and even if he _was_ speaking through a mouthful of mashed turnips and therefore sounded ridiculous, Harry knew he should listen to him.   
  
“Not safe,” Harry said. “Any more than it’s safe to go after one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes in the first place.” He looked to the side where the Resurrection Stone crouched in its silken bag, partly so that he could keep from rolling his eyes at the way Draco flinched. _It’s just a name. Not all of Dumbledore’s lessons were useless_. “But we don’t have a choice. If I asked Ron and Hermione, there’s the chance Dumbledore could figure out what they’re doing and take the tiara away from them before they could secure it. And they _certainly_ couldn’t get down to the Chamber of Secrets and find the basilisk venom before Dumbledore figured out what they were doing. Or look up the modifications to the Switching Charm.”  
  
“I’ll remind you that we haven’t found all the necessary modifications, either.” Draco licked his fingers. Harry looked away for a different reason this time, and pretended to be really busy with the bread and butter.  
  
“I know,” he said. “But we can at least fetch the tiara and keep it safe until we do.”  
  
Draco said nothing, but when Harry looked back at him, he found Draco smiling slightly. “I know that,” he said. “I just want to make sure that you’re aware of all the risks.” He reached out and clasped Harry’s hand, squeezing slightly. “If you aren’t, I’ll think of them, but I appreciate someone who can share the burden.”  
  
Harry squeezed his hand back and leaned forwards to kiss him.  
  
“There are some distractions you do not need occupying your time,” Snape’s voice said briskly, and then he was striding into the kitchen. Harry sat back in his seat and tried not to pout. “We need not rely on Granger and Weasley alone, or your own scanty knowledge of the school. My knowledge is vast.” He raised an eyebrow at Harry. “And you have that map that allows you to recognize the secret passages.”  
  
Harry nodded. “But I wonder if Dumbledore will have trapped some of the passages. He knows more about the school than any of us.”  
  
Snape made a flicking gesture with his fingers, as if Dumbledore’s knowledge of the school were a puff of dust he was tossing away from him. “We cannot anticipate every measure he may take,” he said. “We can only make good plans and then put the plans into operation.” He leaned forwards. “Now, we will...”  
  
And Harry and Draco listened intently, and when Mrs. Malfoy came downstairs, then she listened intently, too.  
  
*  
  
“I want to come with you.”  
  
Harry put his arms around Sirius and closed his eyes, wondering when he had started to feel so protective of Sirius and reversed the godfather and godson roles. Of course, it had probably started when he had Voldemort in his body and injured Sirius so badly. Sirius was trying to stand tall and straight, but his twisted spine wouldn’t permit it. And the hand that he used to stroke Harry’s hair still shook.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. “We’ll have to move fast, and you can’t.” He had found that trying to refer to Sirius’s injuries tactfully made him rage, so he would speak bluntly about them.  
  
Sirius bristled, then sighed and hugged him back. He could still hug so hard that he wrung a grunt of pain from Harry. “At least that’s a good reason,” he said. “I would have been worried if it was because Snivellus didn’t want me along.”  
  
Harry stepped back and eyed Sirius sternly. Sirius hadn’t tried to force him away from Snape for years now, but he wasn’t above insults. “He doesn’t insult you to me anymore,” he said. “Can’t you imitate him? His level of civility isn’t very high.”  
  
“He doesn’t insult me to your face,” Sirius muttered, and folded his arms, which caused his body to twist slightly to the side. He looked like a disheveled scarecrow with his hair sticking out in several directions. “He might go around drinking Firewhisky and muttering it to himself, you never know.”  
  
The _image_ of Snape sipping Firewhisky made Harry laugh. Then he shook his head. “I don’t think he does,” he said. “And I want to have you both as—as teachers.” He didn’t think there was any better word to describe his relationship to Snape right now, even though they were no longer professor and student. “So don’t say things like that that might make me choose between you.”  
  
Sirius nodded and sighed gustily. “I don’t think I’ll ever trust him,” he said. “But I won’t speak badly about him.”  
  
“Thank you,” Harry said quietly. He hugged Sirius again. He wanted to feel he could trust his godfather and talk openly with him instead of always listening for insults about Snape. He was feeling weird enough already, leaving his Gryffindor friends behind and associating almost exclusively with Slytherins. He didn’t want to lose the first side of himself. “And I promise that we’ll come see you the moment we get back to Grimmauld Place and tell you how it went.”  
  
“All right.” Sirius’s arms tightened crushingly around for him a moment. “Ah, Harry. I was too late to do anything about Pettigrew betraying your parents. I thought they would be safe for a few hours whilst I tried to find more evidence. Don’t make me mistaken about your safety, too.”  
  
“Draco would do anything for me,” said Harry. “And so would Snape. I know you don’t agree with me, but he would.”  
  
Sirius grunted skeptically, but let Harry go. “Will you meet up with Ron and Hermione?”  
  
“We’re going to try,” Harry said. “But we have to go in at night, and we don’t know if Ron and Hermione will be able to slip out of Gryffindor Tower without alerting Dumbledore.”  
  
“It’s so strange to think of Dumbledore as the enemy,” Sirius said.   
  
“Not so strange for me, cousin.”  
  
Harry turned quickly. He had never got used to the way that Mrs. Malfoy could move so quietly, and he _didn’t_ trust how she stood in the doorway now with her hands folded at her waist like some serene statue. She was wearing white robes, too, which increased the impression of purity. Harry wouldn’t be taken in, though. He knew from the way she peered at him that she still didn’t like him, and that she didn’t think he should be dating Draco.  
  
“I have spent most of my life thinking of the wizards that Dumbledore led as the enemy,” Mrs. Malfoy went on, walking further into Sirius’s room, not seeming to care about the scowl on Sirius’s face or the frozen expression Harry was sure he was wearing. Her voice was light and careless, the voice Harry had heard Aunt Petunia use when she was gossiping with the neighbors. “It has required an adjustment to make myself think otherwise. But my husband began the adjustment smartly for me on the night when he tried to murder me and spill my blood as a sacrifice to strengthen a Horcrux’s guardian spirit.”  
  
Harry winced. “I never knew that was why you fled to Hogwarts, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said.   
  
“It is.” Mrs. Malfoy looked at him, and for once Harry thought there was some intense, if buried, emotion in her cold eyes, instead of just icy nothingness. That nothingness was what made him avoid Draco’s mother most of the time. “I was not comfortable enough to tell you until now. But I think you should trust me, too, if I am to go with you to Hogwarts.”  
  
“No one said that you were,” Sirius snapped, and stepped in between them. His crippled hand still couldn’t hold his wand, but he’d become pretty good with the other one, and the wand was steady when it pointed at its target.  
  
“Wait, Sirius.” Harry stepped around Sirius, putting a hand on his shoulder—sometimes he was still surprised he’d got tall enough to do that easily—and looked doubtfully at Mrs. Malfoy. “Snape mentioned something about you being part of the plan, but I didn’t know he was serious. You really want to go?”  
  
“It is an important part of the war,” Mrs. Malfoy said. “And I can provide a distraction for either Dumbledore or the Dark Lord, depending on which of them takes note of us.” Her cheeks were pale, but Harry didn’t think that was fear; it looked more like the result of intense thought. Her eyes never left his face. “I am weary of staying in a few small rooms and wondering when my husband or his Lord will manage to murder me. I would rather go forth to meet them.”  
  
Harry blinked, his heart swelling with fellow-feeling. He’d experienced that often enough at Privet Drive, especially after Voldemort came back and he had to worry about all the terrors he was inflicting on the wizarding world that Harry wouldn’t hear about until he went back to school. “Do you think Voldemort will show up just as we’re moving the Horcrux?” he asked.  
  
“I do not know.” Mrs. Malfoy’s smile was slight and also cold, like a crack in a glacier. “He may have wards and alarms on it, though the lack of interference when you destroyed the other Horcruxes suggests he does not. But I would rather not take the chance. And I know that he would find me an…interesting target, as long as he did not suspect what you were truly doing. If Lucius is there or comes with him, he will be attracted by me as well.”  
  
“I can’t allow you to put yourself in danger,” Harry began.   
  
“You can’t?” Mrs. Malfoy raised her eyebrows higher, until she looked the way Draco did when he was in the very last stages of sucking Harry’s cock. Not that Harry was going to tell her that, and he _really_ hoped she didn’t know the cause of his sudden blush. “When you will be in danger simply because of who you are?” She looked pointedly at the scar on his forehead.  
  
Harry chewed his lip for a moment, then sighed reluctantly and shook his head. Forcing Draco’s mum to stay here would only make her resent him, and that would mean she disliked him for longer. And it would probably make Draco unhappy, at least if he knew his mum wanted to come.  
  
“All right,” he said. “As long as you can keep up physically and you don’t use Unforgivable Curses or Dark Arts as the first means of defense.”  
  
“I have lived longer than you,” said Mrs. Malfoy, in what was probably meant as a repressive tone. “I believe I know more purely defensive charms, and also the appropriate places and times to use them.”  
  
Harry nodded in response, but didn’t voice his suspicions that Mrs. Malfoy shared the Slytherin tendency to assume that the Dark Arts should come out as soon as the enemy injured you a little bit.  
  
Mrs. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed as if she had been the source of Draco’s talent for Legilimency, though, so Harry hastily turned away and started talking to Sirius. “Remember not to let anyone who looks like us into the house without asking us questions only we would know first. And keep the wards up. And no venturing out in dog form to look for us. We’ll come back when we come back.”  
  
Sirius rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mum.”  
  
“I wouldn’t be your mum for worlds,” Harry said, shuddering as he thought of the portrait downstairs. He hugged Sirius one more time, and then turned and left the room. Mrs. Malfoy lingered behind him, and he thought he heard her ask Sirius a question.  
  
If he was right, the question was, “You let him order you around like that?”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes and sped up until he was practically leaping down the stairs. He didn’t understand Mrs. Malfoy’s point. She had been the one to make him into a kind of leader when she had come into the Great Hall and claimed his protection, after all. If she thought that he wasn’t an adult enough to order people around sometimes, why did she want that protection?  
  
 _But then again, maybe she doesn’t connect those incidents_ , Harry thought, as he landed on the last stair and in front of Draco and Snape, who were waiting for him. _I’m learning that an awful lot of people think awfully differently from me the majority of the time._   
  
“Ready?” Draco asked. His face was whiter than normal, and his eyes stood out of his skull as if someone was poking them from behind. Harry stepped towards him and put his arms around him without even caring that Snape was watching and that Mrs. Malfoy was probably also on the stairs already.  
  
“I am,” Harry said. “And I’m _certain_ we’re going to complete this successfully.”  
  
He wasn’t, but it was what Draco needed to hear, and he relaxed in Harry’s arms. Harry didn’t think he was misinterpreting the slight nod Snape gave him, either.   
  
And then Mrs. Malfoy had reached the bottom of the stairs, and there was no reason to delay any longer.  
  
*  
  
Severus looked around and shook his head. They stood in the Forbidden Forest, not far from the gates of Hogwarts. It was a view he had seen numerous times, not least whilst strengthening the school’s protective spells over the summer so that beasts from the Forest could not invade. But he had never traveled as far between one year and the next as he had traveled between May and now.  
  
Narcissa stood beside him, as cool and impersonal as a water-lily. She watched without comment as Severus drew his wand and released the silver doe Patronus. The doe stamped her hoof against the ground before Severus and tossed her head as if she would resist the command he gave her. But Severus arched an eyebrow and imposed his will on the magic, and she turned and faded away like one of the castle’s ghosts.  
  
“You are sure this will bring Dumbledore?” Not many people would have known Narcissa Malfoy was nervous, but her fingers, folded at her waist, twitched a fold of her gown between them. Severus knew.  
  
“Yes.” Severus gave a thin smile, though he was not certain Narcissa, who studied the school gates through which her son had vanished, saw it. “The Order of the Phoenix communicates by means of Patronus, mostly. The means of sending him the message will convey its own import to Dumbledore. Or he will think it does, at least.”  
  
Narcissa eyed him sideways, then nodded and went back to watching the school. Severus cast a slight Warming Charm—the whistle of the wind past him was chill—and then a spell that sharpened his eyesight. He had to be aware the moment the door into the school twitched open and the Headmaster came hurrying out, because then it would be time to put the second part of the plan into motion.  
  
He and Narcissa were not the main actors tonight, but only the distraction, so that Draco and Harry could make it to the Room of Requirement to fetch the tiara and then down into the Chamber of Secrets to get the basilisk venom without interference from Dumbledore. He had to remember that, and to be ready to move as soon as he saw the chance.  
  
*  
  
There were too many inquisitive professors in the school, Draco thought in irritation, and _every single one_ of them seemed determined to inspect the corridors tonight.  
  
He and Harry were Disillusioned, as well as wearing small amulets his mother had crafted for them that she said would distract the detection spells. The amulets were small packets that felt leathery and had a dark brown tinge like old blood. Draco could see that Harry had wanted to ask, but in the end he had taken a deep breath, nodded, and accepted the amulet from Narcissa without a question.  
  
But none of that was proof against determined investigation, and Narcissa had warned them against relying too much on the amulets even when it came to the detection spells. So far, they had passed Flitwick, McGonagall, Vector, and Madam Pomfrey. All of them had paused as if they had seen the slight stir or shimmer of air that a Disillusionment Charm would cause as someone moved in front of a blank stone wall, and McGonagall and Flitwick had both held up their wands and looked further.  
  
But Draco and Harry holding still, to the point of holding their breath, and clutching their amulets had seemed to confuse them. At least, they shook their heads and went away each time.  
  
Finally they reached the seventh floor, and Harry shot out a barely visible hand and squeezed Draco’s arm, hard. Draco looked sideways at him, wondering if his fear had finally caught up with him. But the outlines of his face were so faint that Draco found it hard to make out his expression.  
  
Instead, he waited, whilst Harry’s hand squeezed harder and harder. And then he relaxed, his fingers just barely encircling Draco’s wrist. But when they went forwards, they went together.  
  
Draco ducked his head, in case Harry could see _his_ expression better and found his delighted smile offensive.  
  
They came to the door of the Room of Requirement and leaned against the wall. Harry cast a few temporary wards that should tell them if anyone was coming, particularly from Gryffindor Tower, and Draco added a customized spell he had learned from his book. If it worked the way it was supposed to, it would baffle the spying portraits.   
  
And then they had to wait, because Narcissa had promised to signal them when Dumbledore came out of the school in response to Snape’s Patronus and they had seen nothing yet.  
  
Harry put his mouth to Draco’s ear. “I can’t believe that we’ve come this far and nothing has gone wrong,” he whispered. “Something _has_ to, at any moment.”  
  
“Don’t be so pessimistic,” Draco snapped back, though he kept his voice so light that he thought not even Mrs. Norris could have heard him from a step away. “That’s my role. You just play hopeless optimist the way Gryffindors were born to do.”  
  
Harry smiled; Draco felt the motion of his lips even if he couldn’t see it. Then Harry kissed Draco’s cheek and stroked his hair once before stepping back. His shoulder stayed close enough that Draco could feel his body heat.  
  
Draco relaxed in spite of himself. Yes, he was nervous at the fact that Dumbledore hadn’t appeared to notice them so far—his spells weren’t weak, and he had to suspect some attack from Harry and Draco once he saw that Professor Snape and Draco’s mother had returned—but it was still nice to be reminded that they had lives outside the Horcrux hunt. And one aspect of those lives was the physical touches that Harry was now much less shy about giving him.  
  
A faint silvery light suddenly lit the corridor, and a swan extended its wings in front of them and bobbed its long, delicate neck, the beak almost striking Draco’s head before it disappeared.  
  
“There it is,” Harry breathed, and began to walk back and forth in front of the door of the Room of Requirement. “I need the Room of Hidden Things,” he murmured, exactly as the Dark Lord had said the phrase in his mind.  
  
Draco didn’t walk with him for fear that two people would confuse the Room. Instead, he took a deep breath, tightened his hold on the wand, and hoped for the best.  
  
*  
  
 _There._   
  
Dumbledore wore robes there was painful to look at, as always. They swirled with dark purple folds and winking silver stars. Severus moved his head in a slight nod, and Narcissa stepped behind him so that she might cast the Patronus to send to Harry and Draco in relative privacy. Severus, meanwhile, stepped forwards and reached into his pocket, drawing out the replica of Dumbledore’s wand that Narcissa had made.  
  
It was not to be hoped that the replica would fool Dumbledore for long; he must have been familiar with his wand for years. And he would wonder why Severus had it, when Draco was had won it.  
  
But anything that could keep Dumbledore distracted and talking until Severus received Harry’s stag Patronus in return—signaling that he and Draco were safe and out of the school, with both tiara and basilisk venom—was valuable.  
  
The Headmaster came to a stop in front of him, smiling. He had covered the grass between the doors and their position with a brisk stride. Now he looked Severus in the eye, but someone less experienced in spying could have seen the way his gaze flicked down to the wand of elder wood.   
  
“My boy,” he said, and his voice was husky with feigned emotion. At least, Severus thought it was feigned. One of the most annoying things about Dumbledore, as he had discovered after associating with him for years, was that he remained hard to read. Familiarity made no difference in knowledge of his facial expressions. “I knew you would come back. I doubted sometimes, I troubled my mind about matters, but I knew.” And he took a step forwards, hand reaching for the replica, exactly as if he possessed some right to it.  
  
Severus moved smoothly away, and felt Dumbledore’s tension rise a notch when Narcissa stepped out from behind him. If the Headmaster had seen her Patronus leave, however, he gave no sign of it. He nodded to her and said, “Dear lady, were you instrumental in persuading my boys to return? I am grateful.”  
  
“Harry has not yet returned,” Severus said, seizing on Dumbledore’s belief to spin a stronger lie. “He remains at our Apparition point in the Forest, waiting to see if you can be trusted.”  
  
“And Mr. Malfoy with him, I trust?” Dumbledore pushed his glasses up his nose and beamed. Severus _thought_ he might have detected a slight hitch of exasperation in his voice when he mentioned Draco. Perhaps.  
  
“Of course.” Severus tapped his fingers against the replica. “He did not want to surrender the wand, but we convinced him that it was necessary if we were to show we trusted you.” He paused. “ _If_ we can trust you.”  
  
“I am ready to offer you any pledge, any token.” Dumbledore could sound dignified when he wished to, and so the words did not come out as begging. It was one of the reasons that night in the Headmaster’s office had unnerved Severus so badly. Dumbledore’s desire for the Resurrection Stone must have been overpowering for him to be reduced to grasping for it. “An Unbreakable Vow, if that is what it takes.”  
  
“Hearing you accept me under your protection of your own free will would be a good start,” said Narcissa, her voice holding just the right amount of chilly politeness. Dumbledore’s attention shifted to her, and his eyes narrowed a bit. Severus managed to keep his mouth still when it would have twitched in an approving smile, but it was difficult. Dumbledore was a half-blood, and he had grown up in a time when the divide between pure-bloods and other members of wizarding culture was even more pronounced than it was now. Narcissa, raised within that formal world, could needle him in a way few others would manage.  
  
“I can offer you that,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Your husband has not pursued you as strongly as he might have, and Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have offered me explanations of the danger to you within the school that I can accept.”  
  
 _Meaning that he no longer thinks Narcissa engineered that danger herself to support her story_ , Severus thought, and barely managed to refrain from rolling his eyes. The Headmaster’s greatest problem had always been that he distrusted the words of others, not because he thought them untrustworthy, but because he put too much faith in his own perspective. Stories that did not match that perspective must be suspect.  
  
“Then perhaps…” Narcissa let her voice trail off teasingly, and gave him a smile that Severus had seen melt more Slytherin men.   
  
“Harry has other concerns,” said Severus briskly. This was the plan they had concocted in the first place, to distract Dumbledore by forcing him to think about conundrums he had already shown himself unable to resolve. “He wants to know if you have given up your desire for the Resurrection Stone and will permit him to destroy it.”  
  
Dumbledore’s eyelids veiled his eyes. “I think, Severus,” he said slowly, “that, as someone older than Harry and more familiar with wizarding history, you may be able to better understand the immense power and significance of the Deathly Hallows.”  
  
 _And who has ensured that he was not familiar with wizarding history? Who let him grow up with Muggles_? Severus kept such emotions out of his eyes and the forefront of his mind, however; it would not do to have Dumbledore read them from him before he was ready. Likewise, he kept his arms at his sides despite the immediate and immense temptation to fold them. “I am listening,” he said.  
  
That declaration could have meant everything or nothing, but Dumbledore had a tendency to interpret such words as broadly as possible. He nodded and smiled. “The Deathly Hallows are thought to be legend because they are so rarely gathered together, or in the possession of an owner who can be historically verified,” he said. “But consider what would happen if one person managed to accumulate them. To use them.”  
  
Severus snorted in spite of himself. “You cannot make me believe that you want power, Albus. You have spent your life downplaying what power you do have, and you confessed to me yourself that your greatest fear is being called on to display your knowledge and become involved in the lives of your students.”  
  
Dumbledore gave him a quick, piercing glance, perhaps because Narcissa was here and he had not wanted her to hear that, but he continued to speak in a soothing voice. “I wanted the Resurrection Stone to see my dead again, but I also wanted it to keep it out of unscrupulous hands.”  
  
“If we destroy it, then it is out of any hands, scrupulous or not, forever,” Severus pointed out. He was reluctantly fascinated by now, however. _How far will he go? How desperately will he try to convince me?_  
  
“That is true,” said Dumbledore, and bobbed his head a little, with a conciliating smile on his face that Severus didn’t trust for a moment. “Nevertheless, listen to me, please.”  
  
Severus raised a brow and waited.  
  
“I will prove that you can trust me,” Dumbledore said, lowering his voice as he did when he wanted to appear mysterious, “by offering you a secret that I have carried unacknowledged for years by myself. I believe that Harry’s Invisibility Cloak was one of the Hallows, and destroyed by Mr. Finnigan’s spell. Thus, the greatest number of the Hallows that anyone can possess from now on is two. And I _had_ two at that moment in my office, Severus.”  
  
Severus tightened his grip on the replica wand. “You mean—”  
  
“The Resurrection Stone,” Dumbledore said, his voice so soothing it was almost sweet. “And the Elder Wand. Yes.” He paused impressively, and layered dignity on the silence. “I took possession of the Elder Wand long ago, in circumstances that—well, they are connected to my past and my dead, and do not need confessing at the moment.”  
  
 _Even now_ , Severus thought, as he reeled under the unexpected shock of what Draco was carrying around with him and using for common household chores, _he tries to determine what information he will pass on. Of course he does._   
  
“I believe that I could cleanse the Resurrection Stone,” Dumbledore went on, and his voice rustled like the voice of Bellatrix in Severus’s nightmares. “Purge it of Voldemort’s influence, without destroying it. And then I could use both Hallows to good effect. It was always my plan to die peacefully and carry the Elder Wand to my grave with me, so that its power would end forever. That is another reason I have avoided open conflict for so long.  
  
“Give me back the Wand and the Stone, Severus. I need them both, and they will ensure that I, and no one less capable of protecting them, keeps them from Voldemort.”  
  
Severus took a deep breath. He had never anticipated encountering a revelation like this, and was not sure how it changed things on the ground.  
  
Narcissa Malfoy moved before he did.  
  
*  
  
Harry halted the instant he stepped into the Room of Requirement, and looked warily about.  
  
It wasn’t that he thought this was the wrong place. It _had_ to be the Room of Hidden Things, given all the clutter scattered randomly about. Shelves packed with dusty books sagged in every direction and tipped their load to the floor. Statues and busts of sneering or smiling or laughing wizards and witches who had been famous in their day stared at the ceiling or the walls. A broken Vanishing Cabinet huddled not far from the door. Here and there, Harry could see the shimmer of mirrors and the glow of gold and silver necklaces, or perhaps bracelets, anklets, or chains.  
  
But something was different from what he had expected, from the atmosphere he had experienced every other time he had entered the Room of Requirement. He grimaced and put a hand to his forehead as his scar began to burn.  
  
 _That’s it. The room smells like Voldemort, feels like him._  
  
Harry stood still, his arms folded, trying to convince himself that was only natural. Ravenclaw’s tiara had been here for God knew how many years; of course the sense of Voldemort’s presence might have spread out and tainted the other objects. Other people, if they’d come here in that time, probably wouldn’t have noticed because they didn’t have the link to Voldemort that he did.  
  
 _But should it be this strong_? The feeling that said “Voldemort” to Harry spread out like a miasma, curling down in heavy, greasy smoke to stroke the treasures and enter the eyes of the statues. If he opened one of the books, Harry thought, nausea rising in his throat, the impression of Voldemort would cling to every one of them, like a film making the letters run.  
  
“Oi!”  
  
Harry started as Draco shoved at his back, and stepped aside so Draco could enter the Room, though he continued to stare distrustfully in several directions. Draco glanced curiously at him, then at the mess. He groaned. “I think it’ll take some time to find the tiara,” he muttered. “I mean, it can’t be as simple as saying ‘ _Accio_ tiara,’ right?”  
  
A clinking and rattling sounded off to the side. Harry whirled around, hand on his wand. He thought he saw a fading glow encircle Draco’s robe pocket for a moment, where Dumbledore’s wand rested, but he forgot about it when a discolored tiara soared towards Draco.  
  
Draco laughed in astonished triumph and reached up for it. “I reckon he didn’t use any traps because he was arrogant enough to think he was the only one who would ever find this place,” he remarked.  
  
“No!” Harry shouted when he saw the tiara almost brush Draco’s fingers. “Don’t touch it!”  
  
Draco turned to look at him, gaping in astonishment. The tiara wobbled in the air for a moment, then startled to settle onto his head.  
  
Harry knocked him aside, wrapping his arms around Draco’s waist and bearing him to the ground the way he had dreamed of doing under different circumstances. Draco gasped as the air was knocked out of him and then began to drum on Harry’s chest with his fists, calling him a clumsy oaf, but Harry’s attention was on the tiara.  
  
It had fallen to the floor. He could see that most of it was tarnished, but the tarnish ran out at one place in the front, where a deep crack shimmered with gray light.   
  
A crack in the Horcrux.  
  
From which the guardian spirit might be able to escape.  
  
The things around them surged, and then all of them turned and began to attack.  
  
Harry cursed and lifted his wand. He had been right. Voldemort’s presence was everywhere, spread to the other treasures in the Room of Hidden Things. Harry hadn’t realized the guardian spirit could take over the “bodies” of objects as well as humans, but it seemed it could.  
  
And right now, he had to hope that the Dark Arts he had learned from Snape were adequate to defending himself from a Vanishing Cabinet.  
  
*  
  
“I see no reason to give you the Wand,” said Narcissa in reflective tones, “though we did bring it here with that intention. My son Draco remains its master. I would not see him give up such power.” And she moved forwards and laid a hand on the replica.  
  
 _Good, Narcissa_ , Severus thought approvingly. He was still too disoriented by the revelation to think of such a clever plan. Great pieces of knowledge had that effect on him. It was an unfortunate weakness. He had not reacted quickly or well to Lily’s desertion when he realized it was final, either.  
  
But this was the present, when he still had a chance to make a difference, and he would not allow the past to intrude. He turned his wand so that it was pointing at Dumbledore. “Yes, exactly,” he said. “Why should we give up the Wand when it is the only one of the Hallows we can keep, and the most powerful?”  
  
Dumbledore’s eyes flashed with a single intense emotion. It might have been sorrow, or rage. Severus was not sure; he did not think he had ever seen Dumbledore truly angry. “You still mean to destroy the Stone?” he asked quietly.  
  
“Of course,” Severus said, and fought to keep from rolling his eyes. Dumbledore’s obsession had weakened him permanently, it seemed, attaching him to the Stone even when he should have been thinking about other matters. _I owe Harry for many things, but perhaps for nothing so much as freeing me from my obsession with his father. It could have crippled me_. “It’s a _Horcrux_.”  
  
“But it could be purged,” Dumbledore whispered. “It could be cleansed.”  
  
“How?” Severus demanded. Dumbledore had never been shy about mentioning the general outlines of his ideas, though he kept the details to himself most of the time. He wanted to impress others by showing that he knew more than they did.  
  
Dumbledore said nothing, and his eyes flicked briefly to the right, which Severus knew was the sign of a lie. He snarled. “You have found nothing,” he said. “Or your research has taught you that there is no way a Horcrux will solve the destruction of its parental object, but you wish to possess the Stone in any case.”  
  
Dumbledore gave a tiny sigh. “I gave you the chance, my boy,” he said. “I wanted to believe, when I saw that you had come back, that you had chosen sense instead of rebellion. But it is not to be.”  
  
He spoke a single quiet word, and the ground opened up into a pit beneath Severus and Narcissa.  
  
*  
  
Pansy had once told Draco that she had nightmares about being attacked by her toys at night, when she was done playing with them and there were no adults around to make them behave themselves. Draco had snorted. He couldn’t imagine anything less likely to scare him than an array of marching objects.  
  
Now that he was in the midst of it, it didn’t seem so laughable.  
  
He fired off a Blasting Curse that made one of the Vanishing Cabinet’s doors sag to the side, but didn’t stop its march towards them. He backed up so that his shoulders bumped into Harry’s, and listened as Harry shattered several plates with chanted spells that didn’t quite cross the line into curses.  
  
“For God’s sake, Harry, this is no time to be _considerate_!” Draco yelled.  
  
Harry didn’t respond, though from the way he stiffened against Draco’s back, he probably thought he had some reason for acting the way he did. But he snapped a Lightning Curse that destroyed a plate skimming at their heads then, and Draco was satisfied.  
  
He raised a Shield Charm in front of himself and then focused his attention on the tiara. It lay in the midst of the wreckage, gleaming smugly. There had to be _some_ way to stop the assault by hurting it. The guardian spirit had got out of it somehow, Draco thought, seeing the crack.  
  
If he plugged up the crack, did that mean the spirit would go away? But, no, from the reading he’d done he thought the spirit was probably fully ensconced in its hosts now and couldn’t be stopped by something as simple as that.  
  
Absently, he cast a spell that reduced a marching statue to dust whilst Harry barked a command that forced back a whole bunch of tables trying to fall on them.  
  
He had the power to affect the tiara. Somehow. He hadn’t really cast the Summoning Charm, but it had still come. And there had to be protections on it against someone just calling the tiara, but it had still come.  
  
Draco cut a heavy bookshelf in half and closed his eyes, trying to remember the exact moment when he had joked about Summoning the tiara.  
  
There had been a feeling of power coiling around him. But it hadn’t come from his wand. Draco was certain of that. After a summer of working with spells of varying power, learning to “feel” the difference in their magical signatures and how to modify them, he had also become good at sensing the source and direction of power.  
  
Coiling around him, as if it had reached from behind him—  
  
Draco opened his eyes as wide as the doors of the Vanishing Cabinet were hanging now and snatched Dumbledore’s wand out of his pocket.  
  
He thought he felt something bend back in front of it, like an invisible enemy flinching. He didn’t have the time to make sure, though, and he didn’t think he had to. He raised the wand high and barked, “ _Conpello_!”  
  
The wand shuddered in his hand, and for a moment Draco wondered if he was awakening something worse than the force that herded the objects towards them. But then the entire room seemed to spin, and the plates and the books and the necklaces and the statues all jumped towards each other, the way Draco had meant them to.  
  
He _hadn’t_ planned the dark blue whirlwind that consumed them. Or the magic that snatched a tendril of gray smoke trying to escape and forced it back into the whirlwind. Someone screamed, a high and lonely cry. The air surged, and then the whirlwind vanished, and the Room of Hidden Things seemed much smaller and clearer than it had before.  
  
The tiara still lay on the ground. Draco, shuddering, cast a spell that would plug the crack in the tiara just in case and gingerly Levitated the thing into a silk bag that he conjured for it. He thought they had destroyed the guardian spirit, but he was sure the tiara was still dangerous.  
  
“That was quick thinking, Draco.”  
  
Harry’s voice was thick with pain. Draco turned hastily around. Harry was cradling his right arm, which was obviously broken. He looked at Draco with an open love and admiration that almost made everything worth it, but Draco couldn’t stand to see him in pain.   
  
“Come on,” he said gently, and reached out for Harry, drawing Harry towards him as he reached for the Portkey that would take them directly back to Grimmauld Place. “Let me send my Patronus to my mother and we’ll get out of here.”  
  
“But the basilisk venom,” Harry began.  
  
“I don’t want you to go down into the Chamber of Secrets injured,” Draco said firmly. “Owl your friends and have them collect it for you. If you give them the map, maybe they can find a different way in. Besides, I think that with the guardian spirit gone, this Horcrux won’t be that hard to destroy.”  
  
Harry nodded faintly, which was the best indicator of how much pain he was in. Draco concentrated hard, and a silver bull charged out of his wand and through the wall in what was presumably Narcissa’s direction. He blinked. His Patronus seemed to change form frequently, as if with his moods; he thought it hadn’t been a bull last time.  
  
He made sure the tiara and Harry’s arm were both carefully arranged against jouncing, and then activated the Portkey.  
  
All the while, Dumbledore’s wand purred disagreeably against his wrist, like a cat who’d got away with some great mischief.   
  
*  
  
Narcissa whirled around above Severus, casting her robes out. Severus tilted his head back, speaking Lightening Charms but intent on what she was doing. If she had some better way to save them, she was welcome to exercise it.  
  
The robes widened and spread, becoming a diaphanous net with the moon shining through it. Narcissa made short, sharp exhalations that Severus didn’t think were in any human tongue, and the robes spread further and further. Suddenly, they billowed and bent into bat-shapes, and caught the wind like dragons’ wings. Narcissa hunched her shoulders. They flapped.  
  
Before Severus even knew what was happening, she had locked her hands beneath his arms and they were rising out of the pit. Severus looked down once, but Dumbledore and the Forbidden Forest were already dwindling beneath them. They were flying so fast but so smoothly that he could barely feel the air against his face. He shivered a bit with the realization of their speed and did his best to speak.  
  
“What—”  
  
“House-elves wove these robes,” said Narcissa, shouting the words into his ear as she banked and the wings flapped hard, carrying them over a mounded hill. “They built a few surprises into them.”  
  
“We must go back.” Severus craned his head towards the school.  
  
“I received Draco’s Patronus,” Narcissa said. “The boys have retrieved the tiara and returned home, and that is enough.”   
  
She could sound so calm and composed even when she was yelling to be heard above the torrent of wind streaming past them, and swooping along with him in her arms a thousand feet above the ground. Severus shook his head and was glad that he was not in Dumbledore’s position.  
  
And doubly glad when he glanced down at his hands and realized that he had dropped the replica wand. Dumbledore would have seized it eagerly—and realized too late what useless wood he held.  
  
Severus settled back with a chuckle. So they had the Resurrection Stone, and the Elder Wand, and, apparently, another Horcrux. Draco’s Patronus would have carried a separate message if something had gone badly wrong, so they must have secured the tiara without too much trouble.  
  
 _We have power on our side. And destiny.  
  
Albus has very little compared to that._  
  
For the first time, deep pity for Dumbledore moved in Severus, and lasted at least until they landed and Apparated back to Grimmauld Place—  
  
And Severus saw Harry, at which point entirely different emotions consumed him, and he had Harry’s arm immobilized and the boy dosed with several different pain potions before he could speak.


	28. Stone

  
“Are you feeling well enough to talk now?”  
  
Harry winced, but kept staring straight ahead, out the window in his bedroom. His arms were folded on the windowsill. His shoulders were hunched. His broken arm was still bound to his side with a sling, though as far as _he_ was concerned he didn’t need it anymore; the bone-healing spells and bone-strengthening potions had done their work. Still, he must look sullen and miserable when seen from behind. That ought to deter Snape from talking to him.  
  
It had worked for three days. Harry had slept and awakened in Draco’s arms, reassured Sirius he was fine, written letters to Ron and Hermione asking them to get the basilisk venom if they could, and engaged in a few guarded conversations with Mrs. Malfoy. That had been all he wanted.   
  
He couldn’t face up to the anger in Snape’s face or voice when he had seen Harry wounded. All he could think was that he was once again being blamed for something that wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t _planned_ to get wounded. He hadn’t thought it would be jolly good fun. He’d done pretty well, in fact, when the cabinet that had only broken his arm might have fallen on him and crushed him flat beneath its weight.  
  
But still Snape watched him with disappointed eyes and spoke to him in a brittle, bitter tone. Harry was just as pleased to avoid a conversation that he feared would make him distrust Snape again.  
  
And he was so _tired_ of distrusting Snape.  
  
“I think you are.” Snape’s voice had cooled. It had sounded considerate at first, but Harry knew that was only a mask.  
  
And then his weariness became anger. Why _should_ he have to hide in his and Draco’s room and apologize for his injury? If Snape wanted to make him apologize, he was the one at fault. Harry had spent years trying not to challenge the Dursleys, trying not to give them a reason to hurt him, and it had happened anyway. It was time to stop running away from Snape, too.  
  
“Yes, I am,” he said, turning around and awkwardly folding his arms in front of him. Maybe his anger would give Snape pause. He hoped so. Snape was staring at him with the same cold mask he’d been wearing for the past three days. The least he could give the bastard back was his own rejection. “Not that you care about the wounds themselves so much as having someone to blame for them.”  
  
Snape paused, his hand on the door of the bedroom. His eyes had gone careful, and Harry didn’t understand why. He should have attacked with such open provocation. “I do not understand you,” he said. “I do not blame Draco for your injury. He was…rather occupied at the time your arm broke. I understand.”  
  
“No,” Harry said, and the bitterness spilled over before he could contain it, “you just blame _me_.”  
  
Snape stared at him, and the shock on his face looked like false innocence. Harry rolled his eyes at him.  
  
“I saw how furious you were when you saw my arm,” he said. “And then you packed me full of pain potions before I could so much as ask for them. You blame me for getting hurt. And I _understand_ that, all right? It’s pretty bloody familiar from the Dursleys.” He felt a sharp stinging at the corners of his eyes, and had to turn away. God, what was _wrong_ with him? Ever since they’d retrieved the tiara, he’s felt tense, instead of happy the way he should. He only relaxed around Draco. “You scolded me the entire time. Like I _chose_ that, like I really wanted—”  
  
And then he had to stop, because Snape’s arms were wrapped around him, in a careful position that wouldn’t jostle his sling, and even Harry couldn’t mistake the emotion in that hug for disappointment.  
  
“Foolish child,” Snape breathed. “That’s not it. I was worried for you, and my worry has little practice at manifesting as anything except anger. That’s—it. That is all.”  
  
Harry swallowed. He trusted Snape’s actions more than he did his words at the moment, but when he reached out and felt carefully around his ribs, Snape’s arms were still encircling him. There was little stiffness in his shoulders. He wasn’t embarrassed about this, or not much. He wasn’t forcing himself to do this.  
  
“You mean that,” Harry said weakly. He _knew_ there had been anger in Snape’s eyes. He wouldn’t allow Snape to forget that. But the possibility that it hadn’t been directed at him had never entered his head.  
  
“Yes.” Snape nudged him gently in the direction of the chairs at the end of the bed. Draco had declared that he was tired of having nowhere to sit when he wanted to read in the bedroom and fetched them from the library. Harry sat down in a daze. “I am—sorry if you misinterpreted my behavior. I thought you were avoiding me because you felt sulky about my giving you the pain potions without your permission and did not want to discuss healing the wounds in your mind.”  
  
Harry put a hand to his scar and shook his head a little. The relief from the thought of arguing with Snape was overwhelming, but the tension still crackled and boiled as a headache behind his temples.  
  
“What is wrong?” Somehow, Snape achieved the perfect tone, concerned but not commanding, as he let Harry go and sat down in the other chair.  
  
“I don’t—know.” Harry forced the words out against a lump of agony in his throat and against the temptation to keep his feelings to himself as he had done for so long. “I should be happy that we succeeded and that Draco is master of the Elder Wand, but I’m not, and I don’t know—what to do.”  
  
He looked up at Snape and let his Occlumency shields drop, hoping against hope that Snape would understand the invitation without the need for words.  
  
*  
  
Severus caught his breath. He had not expected, when he came up the stairs, that Harry would let him see into his mind today. He had thought he was going to be dealing with a reluctant adolescent who was intent on avoiding pain.  
  
But this…  
  
Severus stepped into Harry’s mind even more delicately than he had when he was looking for the location of the Horcrux. It wouldn’t do to cause any pain now. Harry’s trust was more fragile than he perhaps understood. He still expected interference in his life from adults, utter disregard of his feelings, and abuse. It was time for Severus to show him that the first did not necessarily mean the other two would follow.  
  
He built walls to shield some of the boy’s mind, as before, and then turned to face the suppurating wounds the Dark Lord’s possession had caused. He hissed when he noticed that they were darker than before, and the one he had had to tear open the other night in order to reach the memory of the Room of Requirement was boiling with slick magic, the mind’s equivalent of blood.  
  
 _This is more than the damage I had to do._   
  
Severus glided carefully around the pain, touching nothing, but observing intently. The wounds expanded as he watched, and sick fear clenched around his stomach and extended cold fingers into his throat.   
  
_It is no wonder that the Dark Lord did not bother preying on the boy last year. I thought that his sending Bellatrix after Harry meant he was washing his hands of the kill. But even if she didn’t succeed, this would have._   
  
The Dark Lord had done more than simply possess Harry and force him to injure Black, as horrendous as that was. He had carried a magical venom, based on Legilimency, along with him and injected it into Harry’s mind like his snake Nagini biting someone. It was spreading as depression at the moment, and it would increase as senseless mental pain and listlessness of spirit, until at last Harry took his own life.  
  
And there was no way that getting rid of it would not hurt.  
  
Severus placed himself firmly in his own body before he opened his eyes. Harry was watching him with his arms wrapped around his chest, as though to shelter himself against the cold, and his brow was furrowed.  
  
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” he asked. “I could feel your reaction.” He looked away from Severus and pursed his lips with a faint smacking sound. “How bad?” His voice dragged on the last words, as though he didn’t really want to know.  
  
Severus knew the boy had had enough of adults hiding information from him, however, and so he replied honestly. “The Dark Lord has poisoned the wounds in your mind,” he said. “He did it from the beginning, but because they were not…examined closely…I did not realize it had happened. We must purge the venom.”  
  
Harry exhaled hard through his nose. “And it’ll hurt?”  
  
“It will.” Severus had no intention of hiding that, either, particularly because he knew Dumbledore would have tried.  
  
Harry put his hand over his eyes and sat in silence for a moment. Then he looked up, and though his eyes were tearless, they were bright in the way Severus had often seen Lily’s be before she wept.  
  
“I’m tired of distrusting you,” Harry said. “I want to be able to rely on you again. If I’d had more emotional distance from what you told me at the end of my fifth year, then I would have been able to start doing that sooner.” He looked pale and frightened and very young—unless Severus looked into his eyes. “And I want you to heal me as soon as you possibly can.”  
  
Severus hesitated, overcome by the confidence implied in that statement and not sure his voice would stay steady if he spoke now. That wouldn’t be the disaster he would have thought it was two years ago, since Harry was not his Gryffindor friends, but he wanted to be strong for Harry at the moment. He had seen what it did to the boy now that he had to act like an adult for Black, instead of the other way around.  
  
“Speed may increase the pain,” he said. “I will want to study the wounds for at least a month before I begin.”  
  
Harry smiled. “Well, you can do that, since Draco and I aren’t going back to school in September,” he said, and stood up, stretching as though he were trying to stretch his cramped spine from the pressure of a long burden. “And in the meantime, we’ll think about ways to destroy the tiara and the stone permanently.”  
  
He hesitated, then put a hand on Severus’s shoulder and pressed down hard for a moment. Severus recognized the reassuring gesture he often used on Black.  
  
Severus reached up and covered Harry’s hand with his own before he could leave the bedroom. He would _not_ allow Harry to feel responsible for him, too. He was no longer young enough to absolutely require parents, but he still needed someone he could lean on. And more than that, Severus had seen the toll that acting as a leader took on Harry when he still didn’t really believe in his own qualifications for the role. Severus was determined that, at the very least, Harry would know he didn’t have to shelter Severus from the wrongs of the world.  
  
Harry looked down at him, surprised. Severus stared back. He had no idea how good Harry had become at Legilimency under Draco’s tutelage; he had no idea how to make his emotions appear on his face, when he was so long out of practice. But he imagined showing his pride in Harry and his humility under his new charge, and that would have to be enough.  
  
Harry’s expression softened, and he nodded a little before he turned away and walked out the door.  
  
Left alone, Severus closed his eyes and told himself this time would be different, because Harry had made the first move, before he stood and went down to his lab to find his books on mental wounds.  
  
*  
  
Draco sat back and folded his arms behind his head, scowling thoughtfully at the Elder Wand, which lay in the middle of the kitchen table. Now and then, it vibrated and slightly trembled. Its tip swung further and further away from him, the grip inviting his hand. Draco would have thought it was moving because he tapped his foot on the floor and caused shocks that ran up into the table.   
  
Except that he wasn’t tapping his foot on the floor, and he knew better.  
  
He didn’t trust the surge of power that had risen up in him when Professor Snape told him what the wand really was, or the way that the wand had jumped in his belt, even though his hand hadn’t been anywhere near it at the time. It was worrying that he could feel that much hunger for a mere artifact. He didn’t want to end up like Dumbledore, so obsessed with one of the Deathly Hallows that he let its mere _existence_ control and constrain his planning.  
  
Draco yearned for power, of course. He wanted to be strong—at least strong enough to outface his enemies and resist their attacks, ideally strong enough that others would come to him for advice and he could take a position of influence in the wizarding world. That was more than his being his father’s son. Even if his mother had raised him alone, she would have passed that belief, a legacy of his heritage from both the Black and the Malfoy families, on to him. It was an exceptional pure-blood, like Harry’s Black, who didn’t want power.  
  
But Draco had also seen how the search for it had enslaved his father and destroyed his parents’ marriage. He wasn’t prepared to sacrifice _anything_ for it.   
  
One had to have life and health to use power. One had to have freedom, or the use of power would be checked by obligations to others. One had to know something about one’s long-term goals, or the power would be spent frivolously, and flow uselessly into minor projects. And someone would probably come and take it away before long.  
  
Draco did not intend for any of those things to happen. He would carefully study the wand’s magic before he committed to it. He would be the master of the Elder Wand, if he decided to keep it, not its servant.   
  
And he would not make himself a target for the Dark Lord to come after, as Draco suspected he might once he learned who had conquered Dumbledore’s wand, when the most important thing was surviving the war.  
  
 _What I need_ , he thought, watching the way that the wand inched its way across the table towards him, _is some way to use it that won’t involve me wielding it in battle. I would desire power more there, when I might need my full strength to defend Harry or save my own life.  
  
I wonder what makes the Elder Wand so powerful? Its history? Its wood? Its core?_  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes and wondered how easy it would to be to write to Ollivander the wandmaker. He might not know much, but anything more than the bare legend of the Deathly Hallows would be more than Draco knew now.  
  
*  
  
“Mr. Potter. Come here, please.”  
  
The words were polite if cold, but Harry knew a command when he heard one. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had made sure he learned that lesson before he learned to read. He hesitated, then moved slowly into the library, where Mrs. Malfoy sat on a couch before the fire with her hands primly clasped.  
  
“Yes, Mrs. Malfoy?” Harry kept his voice just as cold. If she was about to scold him for “corrupting” Draco or putting him in danger, then Harry wasn’t in the mood to listen. He kept his back to the wall by the door so that he could dart out quickly if the scene got too unpleasant, and looked at the fire rather than at her. Maybe that would reduce the confrontational nature of the conversation.  
  
Her first words put paid to any hope of that. “You must realize that I resent your relationship with my son.”  
  
Harry took a deep breath and looked her in the eye. He cared more about showing that he loved Draco and she couldn’t drive them apart than he did about hurting her feelings. “Why?” he demanded. “You must know by now that we both want it, and that Draco’s as eager as I am to pursue it. It’s not like I walked up to him, cast the Imperius Curse, and started snogging him.”  
  
Mrs. Malfoy’s eyes grew into chips of ice and pearl, as if she thought the reference to snogging too impolite to pollute the air she had to breathe. _How did she survive seeing us kiss at Christmas_? Harry wondered in irritation. “You could have done more to discourage him than you did,” she said, and there was no inflection in her voice, but there didn’t have to be to show her feelings.  
  
Harry lifted his chin. “I did try to discourage him at the beginning. I assumed his feelings didn’t run deep, and I didn’t want to associate with Slytherins—”  
  
Mrs. Malfoy gave him a brittle smile. “Anyone who would let House pride stand in the way of a loving bond—”  
  
“I’m talking about the way I am now,” Harry said loudly, “not the way I was when I was thirteen. He taught me better. And he wouldn’t go away. So we started out as friends, and then we realized we were in love with each other, and we became lovers.” He watched her flinch with vicious satisfaction. He was through with putting up what other people said and thinking politeness in the face of rudeness was the best response. “So you’d have to talk him out of loving me even if you could talk me out of it.”  
  
“I see the necessity for danger to his life.” Mrs. Malfoy examined her hands. “He would be in danger if he had never associated with you, because I have fled from Lucius and Draco has refused the Dark Mark. But you could have preserved greater secrecy and not asked him to go with you when we left the school.”  
  
“ _We_ ,” Harry snapped back. “Do you think he’d really stand being left behind?”  
  
“That is not the point. You didn’t even try.” Mrs. Malfoy’s eyes were colder than ever.  
  
“I don’t try to make those kinds of decisions for him,” Harry said firmly. “Not anymore. You’ll have to forgive me, Mrs. Malfoy, if I think what Draco wants more important than what you say about it.”  
  
“Conflict between us could make life uncomfortable for Draco. You would not want to force him to choose between us, surely?”  
  
“He’s old enough now to see that that’s a false dichotomy.” Harry yawned in her face. “You would be the one insisting on the choice. And since he’s of age, you can’t make him obey you. I think that he would decide you were trying to force him back into a childish mold, whilst I trust him enough to treat him like an adult.”  
  
Mrs. Malfoy was silent for long moments, studying him. Then she said, “You love him, Mr. Potter?”  
  
“More than I love anyone else,” Harry said fiercely. “I’d do anything to keep him safe from Voldemort—except make him sit out of the war,” he added, anticipating the question he was sure she opened her mouth to ask. “That’s not fair to him. I want to be _fair_ to him, and show that I trust him, even more than I want to protect him.”  
  
“An unusual ambition.” Mrs. Malfoy shifted so that her hands could open on her lap, as if she found the position she had been sitting in until now cramped. “One might say that your way would kill him, whilst my way would at least leave him alive.”  
  
“You can’t know that.” Harry took a step forwards before he thought about it. He didn’t want to threaten Mrs. Malfoy, but, on the other hand, _she_ sounded like she was making threats to _him_. “After all, you thought you were safe in the Manor with your husband, and look what happened.”  
  
For long moments, there was silence. Then Mrs. Malfoy smiled and stood up. Harry stepped quickly to the side and laid his hand on his wand.  
  
“I have indeed failed,” Mrs. Malfoy said, “at least in gaining your trust, if you believe that I would harm you. I will not. I owe you, in fact, for giving me a most valuable and important lesson.” Her voice was mild, with a light chime to it, as if to show that she held no hard feelings, but Harry was not going to trust _that_ , of course. “Never confront a teenage boy who feels as strongly about his lover as you do.”  
  
Harry snarled. “If you think that my feelings for Draco will cool when we get older—”   
  
Mrs. Malfoy held up a hand. “That is not what I meant. I was thinking of speaking to Draco on the same subject, but I can hardly imagine that he would be less—vehement—than you.” Her lips twitched into a brief smile, and she held Harry’s eye until he started wondering if she could use Legilimency, too.   
  
Then she nodded and said, “A good showing, Mr. Potter. Though you are not the first lover I would have chosen for my son, I do believe you have passed the test.”  
  
And she stepped past him and out of the library, her gown rustling softly along her legs.  
  
Harry stared after her with his mouth open for a long moment before he realized what she meant.  
  
 _She was testing me. Seeing if I would defend Draco or back away from him when a member of his family challenged me. And—I performed well enough to satisfy her._  
  
Harry had to breathe hard against the anger that hit him then. He glared after Mrs. Malfoy’s back and thought about casting some jinx that would humiliate but not hurt her.  
  
 _No_ , he decided after a moment. _That would only sour things between us, and I don’t want that. Even if I do think that she’s a cold bitch sometimes._   
  
Instead, he went in search of Draco. He found him casting spells at the Elder Wand with his own hawthorn wand, and sucking his teeth noisily over the results, though the spells produced no effect that Harry could see.  
  
“Sucking your teeth is a filthy habit,” Harry said, and draped his arms over Draco’s shoulders, and kissed him.  
  
Draco leaned back to return the kiss with interest. “I can think of much more filthy things to do with my mouth,” he whispered in a breathy voice. “Interested?”  
  
“God, _yes_.” Harry just wanted to forget about relatives’ tests and wounds in his mind and Horcruxes for a while. He pulled Draco impatiently away from the Elder Wand and towards their bedroom.  
  
Draco laughed breathlessly. “What would you do if I wasn’t here?”  
  
“Wank. A lot.” Harry pulled him into another kiss and then reached down to grip his cock, which had the pleasant consequences of shutting Draco up and making him rut against Harry’s hand.  
  
They’d reached the bedroom, and Harry began taking off Draco’s clothes, since Draco seemed too languid at the moment to do it for himself. He did pause once, to take in the way that Draco sprawled on the bed, his eyes fluttering open and shut and revealing glimpses of clouded grey as they did so, his hair spread around him like a sunburst, his lips slightly parted.  
  
 _I love him, and I don’t care what his mother says._  
  
Harry leaned down for a third kiss, and tore the buttons open.

*

  
Draco circled the table on which the Elder Wand lay, his eyes narrowed. Then he glanced over to the Resurrection Stone, brooding on its silken bag. He couldn’t feel the vibrations of evil that Harry described surrounding the Stone, but given how intense the Wand’s regard on him was—even without eyes—he didn’t think he needed to. He knew they were both powerful, both dangerous.  
  
And one of them had to be destroyed.  
  
 _Or maybe both._   
  
Draco pursued his lips and twisted his head back and forth, peering critically at the Stone and then the Wand. No matter how long he looked, however, he couldn’t see any similarities. He wouldn’t know them for the Deathly Hallows if he simply saw them. How long had the Elder Wand gone unrecognized in Dumbledore’s hand?  
  
He paced in another circle, this time concentrating on the Stone by itself. They would need something extra to fight the power of the Hallows that it carried. He was confident of that, though as yet his research had revealed nothing solid; there were so many contradictory legends about the Hallows. But nothing was ever simple for them, and it made sense that the Elder Wand should have a similarly powerful companion.  
  
 _Once, it would have been set of companions_. Draco felt a twinge of pain that Harry’s Invisibility Cloak had been destroyed. Not only would it have comforted Harry and reminded him of his parents if it still existed, it would have been the most useful of any of the Hallows. No one tried to kill for possession of it the way they did for the Wand, and just _think_ of all the conversations one could overhear.  
  
 _On the other hand, if Finnigan had never destroyed it, then perhaps Harry would never have ventured out of the circle of his Gryffindor friends, and you would never have become as close to him as you are now._  
  
And _that_ would have been intolerable.  
  
Another circle, and Draco tried to banish the thoughts of what-if from his mind and concentrate on what was in front of him. He knew there was some key here, something he could grip and use to destroy the Stone without danger.  
  
If he could only find it.  
  
*  
  
 _Sorry, mate. I don’t think we’ll be able to reach the Chamber of Secrets. Dumbledore has it under watch now, and even going outside and trying to work our way around the school with your map doesn’t work. Dumbledore has the outside entrance guarded, too._   
  
Harry sighed and pushed his hand through his hair. In a way, he’d anticipated this. Dumbledore would, of course, have been warned when they showed up at the school, and if he didn’t know what they’d really come for, at least he was smart enough to _think_ it might be the venom. They hadn’t been there long, so he might decide they hadn’t had enough time to take the venom they’d need to destroy four Horcruxes. Putting a guard on it made sense.  
  
But it did mean that they needed to find another source of basilisk venom.   
  
_Or I need to find and kill another basilisk._   
  
Harry laid Ron’s letter down. He’d respond later. For the moment, he was feeling too demoralized to do so.   
  
He wandered away from the kitchen table, where he’d been sitting when the owl came, and up the stairs. The library was empty for once, which probably meant that Draco had simply taken the books he needed elsewhere. Professor Snape never spent any time in here; he seemed to have the same problems with the Black family books that he did with the Black family itself. Harry drifted along the shelves, his hand idly brushing spines, his fingers tracing the letters of titles.  
  
He ended up in a corner that contained most of the volumes on Dark Arts and looked at a few, aimlessly. _One Hundred and One Curses for Your Direst Enemies. The Art of Careful Murder. Muggle-Baiting: Origins, Practice, History. Poisons and Their Effects._   
  
Harry paused when he saw that last one. For a moment, he wondered if he should study it at all. Draco and Snape knew more about Potions than he did, and that meant they knew more about poisons, either the kind that you brewed or the kind that got used as potions ingredients. Harry knew they would take up another research project without complaint if he asked them to.  
  
But he was beginning to feel useless, waiting around whilst Snape worked on healing his mind and Draco worked on the Switching Charm modifications. He knew part of that came from the general depression Voldemort’s “bites” were inducing in him. That still didn’t make him feel better.  
  
 _At least this book might distract me from worrying about Ron and Hermione_ , he decided, and picked up _Poisons and Their Effects._   
  
It was so thick that he had to hold it with both hands, and it was most comfortable sitting down with the book balanced across his knees. The print made him shudder and tap the page with his wand to increase the size of the letters. The index seemed to be organized mostly by Latin names rather than English ones. If there were any pictures, Harry didn’t find them in flipping through about a hundred pages.  
  
Grimly, he started from the beginning and set out to find something that looked like basilisk venom.  
  
Cobra poison, the Draught of Convulsive Death, hemlock, deadly nightshade (which was also called belladonna, and made Harry shudder as he thought of Bellatrix, still imprisoned upstairs in butterfly form), some sort of silver potion that was poisonous to werewolves, cockatrice venom—  
  
 _Basilisk!_  
  
Harry sat up and began reading carefully.   
  
A moment later, he snorted and flung aside the book in disgust. The entry was so crowded with Latin terms—spell names, for the most part, but ones that he wasn’t familiar with—and long, convoluted sentences full of Hermione words that it didn’t help him. He folded his arms and glared at the book. He didn’t care that he was mostly being sullen because of the venom in his brain. It was _his_ brain, and no one else was in the library right now, and he could be sullen if he _wanted_ to.  
  
 _Is that any way for the leader of a war to act?_  
  
Harry sighed. The worst thing about the confrontation with Mrs. Malfoy was undoubtedly that her voice lingered in his head long past the point when it _should_ , and it was worse than Hermione’s had ever been when that was in the same position. Harry had some training in ignoring Hermione’s nagging, after all.  
  
Reluctantly, he picked up the book again and began to force his way through the passage. He reminded himself that he didn’t need to understand everything. If he could learn how common basilisk venom was, and how easily obtained, and what price it usually sold for, that would be something.  
  
*  
  
Severus slowly lowered the book he held and stared into the fire. He had ended up taking a room on the ground floor of the Black house, not far from the chambers he had fitted out as his potions lab. He didn’t need to worry about anyone else stepping suddenly through the door and surprising the emotion in his eyes.  
  
After a moment, he shut them anyway and pushed the book away from him. It did not hit the floor, because he would never treat a book like that, but it slid across the table in a way that might have made concerned him if the furniture was his heirloom.  
  
Still moving slowly, he linked his hands together behind his head. He would not open his eyes or try to convince himself to move on. He would linger, silently, in the sorrow of what he had just learned.  
  
All his tomes agreed that mental damage of the kind Harry bore was worse the longer it was left untreated. And all insisted that a year was the longest anyone could live with it and expect to escape permanent scars.  
  
Harry had had the wounds for a year and two months now, since the Dark Lord had possessed him in the spring before his sixth year at Hogwarts.   
  
Severus’s hands clenched together, the fingers wriggling like worms to break the tight hold he had imposed on them. He shook his head and restrained them. He would not allow himself to explode into bitter self-loathing and recriminations. He knew that Harry wouldn’t wish the guilt on him.  
  
More important than that, the guilt would do nothing to help.  
  
Just, as he was coming to understand, his guilt over Lily’s death had done nothing to make his atonement better. He had spied and worked to keep Harry safe, and he had known his actions mattered. Yet, at the same time, he had carried around some obscure conviction that his suffering somehow sanctified those actions, making them more important and more holy.  
  
 _Dumbledore exploited that suffering. In you, it became self-pity and a constant guilt. And Lily would not have wished you to carry those emotions with you, either, even if you were indirectly responsible for her murder._   
  
What he most needed information on was not how to undo the impossible. What he most needed information on was how to do what he could, now.  
  
Harry would have scars, then. That was a usual thing by now, and one Severus was beginning to think he could not prevent. From the day the Dark Lord had slaughtered his parents, Harry was destined to be marked.  
  
But the books did not say that Severus would be unsuccessful in saving the boy’s brain. They did not say that memory loss and mood swings were the inevitable result. They did not say that he could do nothing but sit by helplessly as Harry slipped further and further into the death the Dark Lord had intended to consume him.  
  
Severus’s fingers clenched again, and this time he let them.  
  
He could still save Harry. It would simply be a more delicate and taxing process, that was all, requiring greater finesse.  
  
He had never lacked for finesse.  
  
He reached for the books and began, with grim patience, to untangle the own knot of his emotions and his lack of knowledge, so that he might at least pretend that he knew what he was talking about when he broke the news to Harry.  
  
*  
  
Draco tore open the letter greedily. It seemed like forever since he’d written to Ollivander, though in reality only a week had passed since the owl left. He was so eager that he ignored the tawny bird who’d brought the envelope, and it had to screech and peck his hand before he absently snatched up a treat and tossed it over.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Malfoy,  
  
I will assume, for the moment, that you are not mad, or deluded, or intent on wasting an old man’s time, and that you truly believe you possess the Elder Wand. Not that I do not say you have it. That is something you must excuse my being skeptical about._  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. “You _are_ an old man,” he said under his breath. “Fussy and unclear.” He began to circle the table that he had moved to the end of the bed he shared with Harry. It seemed that lately Harry spent all his time in the library, chasing some mythical substitute for basilisk venom, so there was no one there to be bothered by Draco’s pacing.  
  
 _The Elder Wand is sometimes known as the Deathstick, for good reason. The vast majority of its possessors—if one is inclined to put such stock in legend as to grant it, momentarily, the standard of truth—have died in the attempt to keep it. It has done many great things, again if one accepts legend as the basis for truth claims, but its mere existence brings danger. Some believe that the wand itself summons challengers to its current owner, for it wishes to belong only to the most powerful wizard. How can it know it belongs to the most powerful if its owner rests unchallenged?_  
  
“Most wizards who’ve used it are wizards like my father, then,” Draco concluded. “I can hope that I have an immediate advantage over others who’ve had it in the past, just from that.”  
  
 _It is, of course, made of elder wood, though there are disputes about what the core is. The tail feather of the most powerful phoenix alive, some say. Others disagree, and call it the heartstring of a basilisk. There was a small contingent in the fourteenth century who held out for the toenail of a nundu, but they were soundly argued into oblivion in the wandmakers’ journals for their heresy._  
  
In spite of his impatience to learn something more solid than that, Draco laughed. The wandmakers’ disputes sounded every bit as petty as the arguments in the Potions journals that Professor Snape had sometimes shown him.  
  
 _And as one of the Deathly Hallows and thus the gift of Death himself, its power is unequaled. It will bring the one who holds it fame, if only because he will die in a spectacularly messy manner when some other claimant seeks to duel him. It is believed to add extra strength to spells, and to sometimes act on its own, using its “intelligence”—I have considered other words, but the legends make this the only possible choice—to create the most destruction possible._   
  
“Ah,” Draco whispered. He looked at the Elder Wand, lying on the table as usual. He was sure he could feel eyes from it, and that it was aware of his movements. “I _knew_ it. You bloody corrupting thing, you’re trying to take me over. But I won’t be taken over.”  
  
He paused for a moment to consider how mad he would look, talking to his wand, if someone else walked into the room, then shrugged. There was no one else here right now, and he was saying what he thought. He knew Professor Snape talked to himself in the Potions lab sometimes.  
  
 _I am afraid that is all the knowledge I am willing to “attest” to about the wand, save for a last and most curious legend. There are numerous treatises that say the possessor of all three Deathly Hallows shall make himself the master of Death, but only one I have seen that makes a claim for “detachable essences.” The Hallows are intimately connected, given the magic of Death creating them, and one can replace the other. The writer of this treatise said that he had used two at once, the wand and the stone, and caused the wand to behave like the stone, and the stone to behave like the wand. He specifically mentions being able to cast spells with the stone. Whether the wand could be used to summon shades, he did not say, because the treatise is burned at that point and the last words missing.  
  
I do hope that this satisfies you, and that you do not bother me again with legends and false facts.   
  
Ollivander._   
  
Draco dropped the letter and spun around to face the Elder Wand, laughing. The wood vibrated, and Draco thought he detected uncertainty in that invisible regard for the first time.   
  
Draco clapped his hands together. “I’m studying Switching Charms,” he told the wand smugly. “And you and the stone have detachable essences. Maybe I can switch them the way that experimenter did, and that would get past any extra protection the Horcrux might have because it’s one of the Hallows.”  
  
Then he paused and considered it. _Would that actually work? The Stone would become the Wand, and that might make it as hard to destroy as the original Stone was._   
  
A loud, angry buzzing brought him out of his thoughts. Draco raised an eyebrow when he realized that the Wand was tapping against the table as though a wasp were trapped in the core.  
  
“You don’t get an opinion,” he told it calmly, and conjured a glass cage of the kind that Snape kept Aunt Bellatrix imprisoned in. No sense taking chances.  
  
*  
  
Harry tugged another poison book off the shelves and grunted in irritation. He knew there was an answer here somewhere, but it didn’t seem so obliging as to reveal itself. He’d looked in sixteen of them now, entirely using up the last week whilst Sirius worked hard on his physical training with Madam Pomfrey, Mrs. Malfoy watched him in cold silence, Snape brooded over the books that would presumably tell him how to heal Harry’s mind, and Draco looked at the Elder Wand with narrowed eyes. Harry had no idea what he was thinking most of the time. Draco had tried to explain, but he was using esoteric magic terms that Harry would have had to read another whole book to understand, and Harry’s worsening emotions—sudden anger, deepening despair, ridiculous guilt—kept getting in the way. It was best if they made love and didn’t try to speak.  
  
Harry knew it was only temporary. He trusted Snape to save him. (And how strange _that_ was to say; it would have been mad six months ago and unthinkable five years ago). But he still didn’t like it.  
  
And he thought that if he could find something else beyond basilisk venom to destroy the Horcruxes, then he would have made a contribution to the process, no matter how small it was. There had to be _something_ he was good at beyond hurting people and fighting cabinets.  
  
He opened the seventeenth book, looked at the index—most of them were much better-organized than _Poisons and Their Effects_ —and flipped to the section on basilisk venom. Then he cursed. This one was very brief, and seemed to repeat only facts he already knew, about the rarity of basilisks and how to hunt one with a mirror. In disgust, he glanced at the last line of the entry, hoping against hope it would tell him something new.  
  
 _The only thing that can compare to basilisk venom in deadliness is Fiendfyre._   
  
Harry froze. Then he tossed the book in the air and whooped.  
  
He didn’t know what Fiendfyre was—some Dark Arts spell relating to fire, probably. But what _mattered_ was that finally, _finally_ , he had some real substitute for basilisk venom.   
  
The discovery even made the pulsing sadness that had invaded the center of his mind in the last few days withdraw.  
  
He heard pounding footsteps outside in the corridor, and then Sirius limped hastily into the library, his eyes wide and alarmed. He stopped and stared when he saw Harry dancing in the middle of the library and a book lying on the floor behind him. “Harry?” he said. “Is something wrong?”  
  
Harry rushed towards him and hugged him, careful, even as he did it, to keep his arms in the places that Sirius could tolerate. His twisted spine was still a problem, though with Madam Pomfrey’s patient work it straightened a little day by day. “Oh, Sirius, I’m so _happy_ ,” he murmured into his godfather’s shoulder.  
  
Sirius gripped him back with an embrace that lost its uncertainty in a few moments, and whispered into his ear, “Finally.”  
  
And that made Harry laugh again, though perhaps not for a good reason.  
  
 _Fiendfyre. I’ll find out what it is and use it to destroy the Horcruxes. No, I don’t know for certain whether it’ll work, but if it’s as deadly as basilisk venom that’s at least a good sign.  
  
And I’m so tired of feeling hopeless._  
  
*  
  
Severus shut the door of the library quietly behind them. He had talked to Harry about healing his mind in the bedroom he shared with Draco—and Severus was surprised Narcissa hadn’t had a fit about _that_ already—or Severus’s own chambers, but neither was neutral enough territory. The library was better, though they had removed all the books first. Harry might lash out with accidental magic if he was hurt badly enough, and Severus did not want half their research prospects set on fire.  
  
He watched as Harry sat down in a chair, facing him, and bowed his head. His face was pale as cheese, his breath shallow and quick. Severus wished he could sit down and take his hand, but he had to be on his feet and ready to move quickly if Harry did lash out.  
  
“Meet my eyes, Harry,” Severus said, with all the gentleness he possessed, which still left his voice sounding like a raven’s.  
  
Harry raised his head and, slowly, shivering, met Severus’s gaze. The moment he did, Severus spoke the spell softly and slipped into his mind.  
  
Again he built the shields that would contain the most fragile whole parts of Harry’s mind away from the damage that he would have to inflict. Then he turned towards the suppurating holes and concentrated until his own thoughts were as flat and peaceful as he could make them.  
  
Earlier, he had envisioned a sharp pick of crystal, shaped like the lightning bolt scar on Harry’s head. All the books had agreed that it was better if the “tools” used to heal the victim’s mind had some powerful symbolic effect. Severus reached out with the lightning bolt, his solidified thought, and dug into the largest and messiest wound, the one that had contained the information about the tiara.  
  
Harry screamed. Severus, flicking his magic like a whip back and forth between his body and the mind spread out in front of him, managed to avoid the first lash that might have killed him. Two of the bookshelves began to burn, but luckily the Black wards to contain a disaster like that had been activated, and they came down as a wet blanket on the flames.  
  
Severus dug again, and black drops of sick, stinging poison flew up towards him. He flicked his mind back, keeping the lightest touch of Legilimency on Harry’s thoughts. If he once allowed the poison into his head, he might contract the infection himself.   
  
He brought the second tool into play, an envisioned tube of crystal that drew the poison up and out of Harry’s mind. It would spill harmlessly into an imagined void.  
  
If Severus managed to pull the rest of it out of Harry’s mind without being killed by accidental magic or driving Harry mad with the pain.  
  
Those initial moments were the only clear ones. After that it became a long nightmare marked with flashes of brightness, like attending sickbeds during a plague.   
  
Severus ducked a formless Blasting Curse aimed at his head, and it caused a dent in the wall behind him that sent flakes of plaster floating out.   
  
He saw Harry writhing before him in agony so great that it distended his mouth but wouldn’t let him make a sound. His pity as strong as his anguish, Severus built another muffling wall before he went back to work at the wounds.  
  
He stepped gingerly across the scattered swamp of Harry’s mind, past bubbling tar pools and erupting poison that was doing its very best to eat Harry’s sanity. He felt the despair rippling away from that poison, and he cursed the Dark Lord with every ounce of sincerity left to him.  
  
The crystal tube broke away in his hands, and he had to imagine a new one, at the moment and on the fly, without any of the long work of envisioning he’d put in the previous day.  
  
Harry screamed his name, pleading for him to stop. Severus discovered a new use, then, for the long training in coldness and stoicism that he’d had when he played a Death Eater without any true heart for the torturing part of the work.  
  
And then it was done, _done_ , with Severus standing in the middle of Harry’s mind and shaking because the magnitude of the task made him literally unable to imagine that it was done. At last he swallowed, stepped back, and leaped into his own body again.  
  
He opened his eyes.  
  
Harry crouched with his head between his hands. Severus knew he would have a headache that only deep, drugged sleep could cure. He already had Dreamless Sleep Potion at hand, and he started to turn away to fetch it, thinking Harry would want a few moments with no one looking at him.  
  
And then he felt arms wrapped around him from behind.  
  
“Thank you,” Harry whispered. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. It was horrifying enough from my end. Thank you.”  
  
Severus eventually turned around to embrace Harry, but first he had to close his eyes and stand very still.

*

  
“You’re fully healed?” It was the third time Draco had asked the question, but Harry couldn’t be angry at him, not when he could see the reason for his asking it in his eyes. Or in his gestures, for that matter, Harry thought, as Draco smoothed his hair back with a slightly trembling hand.  
  
“Yes.” Harry touched his head, wishing Snape’s healing had left some kind of mark that would stop Draco from worrying. “I still have missing memories, but I think that’s just the way possession works. All the books say that someone who’s possessed is never mentally normal afterwards.”  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes instead of looking reassured. “There could be some poison that Snape forgot to remove.” He shoved Harry back against the pillows when he tried to sit up. “And relax. Snape said you’d still have a headache.”  
  
“It’s only a minor one,” Harry tried. “Nothing like the ones I used to get when Voldemort sent me visions.” But he rolled his eyes and flopped back obediently when Draco glared at him. “Maybe he left some poison, but I don’t think so. I feel—lighter than I have for months, as if all that venom was a weight I was carrying in my head. Cleaner.” He made a vague gesture with one hand, wishing that he could explain it better than that. _Merlin help me if I ever have to make a grand speech explaining what I’ve done in detail._  
  
“Good,” Draco said, and the way he exhaled after the word told Harry how worried he had been. He leaned forwards and laid a hand against Harry’s forehead for a moment, as if to check for fever, then hesitated.  
  
“Say what you’re going to say,” Harry demanded. He had learned to recognize that kind of hesitation. Draco was worrying over something that wasn’t worth worrying about.  
  
“Could I use Legilimency on you to make sure that there’s no poison left?” Draco rushed the words out, staring at the blankets. “It’s not that I don’t trust Snape,” he added hastily, as if he saw the objections rising in Harry’s mind already. “But I would feel better if I could see for myself—” He stopped, face burning. Harry reckoned it was still hard for him to confess something like that.  
  
Harry considered carefully. Draco had been gentle in past Legilimency sessions, but his head hadn’t hurt this much then.  
  
Still, he would rather that Draco see for himself than walk around for days thinking Harry still had poison on the brain.  
  
“Of course,” he said quietly, and extended his hand. Draco clasped it and held it hard enough that his fingers dug into the skin and Harry winced. Draco relaxed a moment later, turned Harry’s hand over, and raised his eyes and his wand.  
  
“ _Legilimens_ ,” came the whisper. Harry realized he had braced for pain at the first sound of the word and smiled wryly.  
  
Draco stepped into his mind the same way he’d always done it: moving quietly and gracefully, doing his best not to hurt Harry. Harry could feel the jangling warnings of pain anyway, vibrations along oversensitive nerves, but he did his best to ignore it. This was Draco, not Snape, and although Harry trusted Snape again now, he could still remember the times that Snape had hurt him.   
  
Draco made a few clucking noises and once stiffened, as though he’d seen something that frightened or startled him, but he said nothing. Then he nodded and focused his eyes again, letting Harry know he’d stepped out of his head.  
  
“There’s nothing left,” he said. “It’s really gone.”  
  
Harry sighed in relief. “Good. Now perhaps we can focus on destroying the Resurrection Stone with Fiendfyre?”  
  
Draco shifted. “I still need some more time to study Switching Charms,” he said. “Though I think I can switch the essence of the Elder Wand with the Resurrection Stone. They’re both equally powerful, but the Wand doesn’t have the protections that the Dark Lord might have attached to his Horcrux.”  
  
Harry sighed and flopped back against the pillows, Draco’s news making him feel far more impatient than Draco’s desire to see inside his head had. “All right. So we’ll wait. But you at least agree that Fiendfyre is an adequate substitute for basilisk venom?”  
  
Draco grimaced. “I think so. I’m just not sure how we’ll control it.”  
  
At least that gave Harry something new to argue about with him. All he’d been able to do for the last three days was lie back in bed and read books on Fiendfyre until the words swam before his eyes and Snape came in with another draught of Dreamless Sleep.  
  
But, in practice, with the venom that might have killed him gone from his mind and the imminent destruction of two Horcruxes at hand, he reckoned that a few days was a small time to wait.  
  
 _You thought you could kill me, Voldemort, but you couldn’t. And every plot you try will fail, until I send the Killing Curse hammering into your ugly face._  
  
*  
  
It was time, Draco thought, and tried to ignore the way that his fingernails were driving into his palms. He was calm, and he had been looking forwards to this moment, not dreading it. Really.  
  
 _It’s finally time._   
  
He, Harry, Snape, Black, and Narcissa all stood around the kitchen table, on which the Resurrection Stone and Ravenclaw’s tiara sat in their open silk bags. Draco reached up and placed the Elder Wand beside them. The Wand made a sharp singing noise like someone running a finger around the rim of a wineglass. Draco smiled, and hoped the smile was at least confident enough to convince the others that he knew what he was doing. _Unhappy that you won’t be around much longer to achieve power over me? I’m sorry that I’m not feeling sympathy for you._  
  
The wand twitched towards him. Draco realized his hand reached out for it if someone had yanked on a string. He growled and snatched it back.  
  
Harry was pale, but he looked much better than he had since they’d gone to Hogwarts to retrieve the tiara. He stood tall and firm, and his wand was ready in his hand, his eyes locked on the Stone, which they’d agreed they would try to destroy first since it was likely to be the harder Horcrux. Draco smiled when he saw the way Harry shifted his weight now and then, as if he would have to charge into battle. His eyes shone with furious determination, and he regularly narrowed them like he was staring into the sun.  
  
 _Is it any wonder I love him? Just look at him._  
  
Snape waited with his hands folded over his wand, his face expressionless. Draco wondered idly if he was really calm or only forcing the fear away. He would have liked to use Legilimency to find out, but Snape would have sensed the magic at once and thrown him back into his own head, and Draco didn’t think they should be angry at each other when they were about to tackle Horcruxes.  
  
Black had a desperately hopeful expression on his face, and wouldn’t stop darting his eyes back and forth between Harry and the Horcruxes. He hung back from the table; Professor Snape had said that since his body had been touched by the Dark Lord’s magic, he would prove more attractive to the Horcruxes than the rest of them. Draco held the private opinion that this was total nonsense, since Harry had been touched by the Dark Lord’s magic, too—more powerfully than Black—and Snape probably just wanted Black out of the way so he wouldn’t disturb their concentration. But Black was the only one who could raise the wards of the house to contain any Dark spirits that might escape the Horcruxes, so they didn’t need him as part of the inner circle.  
  
And then there was Narcissa.  
  
Draco met and found himself holding his mother’s eyes. They bent slightly at the corners, as if she were ruthlessly repressing her anxiety. He smiled thinly, and wondered if she had anticipated that she would be unable to help in the destruction of the Horcruxes when she fled from his father. Of course she provided a potential backup for the wards if Black should fall, because of her Black blood, but Draco knew it wasn’t the role she would have preferred.  
  
 _Well, she did save Snape when we retrieved the tiara. We will have to hope that helps for the moment_. Draco looked at the floor and broke eye contact with his mother for a moment. He felt—uncomfortable noticing the emotions of others, though he could not have said why. Certainly that ability would have made his falling in love with Harry easier, since he could have identified what their feelings meant.  
  
“We are ready,” Snape said, in the kind of tone that dared anyone to challenge it.  
  
Harry nodded and moved forwards, though he was already as close to the table as was wise, looking at Draco. “You need to cast first,” he said, and his voice was gentle and bracing at the same time. Draco smiled at him gratefully. _He might not think that he’s much of a speaker, but he certainly inspires me_.   
  
He faced the Resurrection Stone and raised his wand. The hawthorn wand, not the Elder Wand, although that buzzed at him imperiously from the table. Softly, he breathed the Latin incantation that he’d chosen, out of the large book of Switching Charms, as the one most likely to work.  
  
A dull red spark took form beside him, and struggled in slow motion towards the Resurrection Stone. Draco ignored the nervous looks that Snape and Harry both wore. He had anticipated this happening. They were up against a harder Horcrux this time than Slytherin’s locket, which had had only the protections that the Dark Lord had placed on it—and Draco didn’t want to underestimate those protections, since he knew he would have to face them on the tiara.  
  
But the Stone was one of the Deathly Hallows.  
  
He’d counted on this; it was the reason he had insisted on waiting a few days even after he found the correct Switching Charm. Draco concentrated again, and spoke the second incantation he’d found. This was the one Harry had said he’d heard Dumbledore use. The spark flared, and strained towards the Stone.   
  
Draco heard the breathing of the others then, tight and shallow, but dismissed it from his mind in a moment.   
  
The spark halted, fluttering, in front of the Stone, and then twisted and started to go out. Draco moved his wand in the motion for the Switching Charm, but didn’t speak the incantation, and in the same moment laid his free hand on the Elder Wand.  
  
“Draco, _no_!” Harry yelped.  
  
Draco thought absently that he really was going to kill Harry later—he’d told Harry _all about_ this plan, and why it would be dangerous for him to get distracted—and then forced his will into the Wand. It rose with a delighted buzz, thinking he would use it to complete the Switching Charm. Draco waited until he saw the red spark hovering at the very edge of the Stone and felt the Elder Wand’s magic surging and pounding up his arm, a howling golden tide.   
  
Then he threw his will behind the magic and twitched the Elder Wand in another, exceedingly complicated pattern, whilst he drove the hawthorn wand through yet another variation of the Switching Charm.  
  
A shriek that ripped the air and made it beat like a gong against Draco’s head, and then a golden spark flew out of the Elder Wand and joined the red one hovering next to the Resurrection Stone. Together, they popped inside the Stone. So fast that Draco would have missed it if he’d blinked, something green streaked out of the Stone and into the Wand.  
  
There was a moment of intense silence.  
  
And then Draco discovered that he should have waited even _longer_ to study Switching Charms, because abruptly his spirit left his body and was sucked into the Stone after the Elder Wand’s essence.  
  
*  
  
Harry straightened, watching with silent terror as Draco’s body collapsed like the Invisibility Cloak when someone took it off.  
  
He wanted to wail. He wanted to leap over the table and do something that would rescue Draco.  
  
He wanted to—  
  
But he didn’t have time to do that, because the Stone was shaking and a thick smoke that looked like the deformed baby-thing that Dumbledore had called out of the locket was leaking from cracks in it.  
  
Harry pointed his wand at the Stone and spoke the incantation for Fiendfyre, not thinking about what might happen next, just intent on getting through the destruction of the Horcrux so he could find out what was happening to Draco.  
  
Only a moment later did it occur to him that Draco might be inside the Horcrux somehow, and the Fiendfyre might kill _him_ , too.  
  
But the spirit shrieked and writhed as the Stone smoked, and the Fiendfyre, conjuring images of claws and fangs and twisted heads with huge eyes hanging out of their sockets, rose and raged against the invisible limits that Snape’s magic was imposing on it, and then the spirit pressed steadily towards him.  
  
Harry backed up, snarling. Thoughts whirled and dashed through his head, changing as often as the beasts in the flame. He had to save Draco—he couldn’t let the shard of Voldemort’s soul gain a hold on his spirit—he had to stop the Fiendfyre because it stood a chance of destroying Draco’s spirit, too—the Elder Wand was rising from the table and vibrating—Draco’s body lay still and crumpled as if all his bones were gone and it was _horrible_ —Draco’s mother had slipped around the table and was kneeling over him, chanting in a steady voice, but Harry couldn’t make out the individual Latin words and it would have done him no good even if he could—  
  
And then Snape snapped his will forwards, corralling and driving back the piece of Voldemort’s soul, the way they had practiced.  
  
Harry wondered if he should hate or envy Snape for that focus he possessed, which let him remember the original plan even when he must be worried about Draco.   
  
The piece of spirit shrieked and tore at the air with invisible claws, its face so twisted that Harry wouldn’t have called it a face at all if he hadn’t seen Dumbledore destroy the bit of soul from the locket. Snape continued to speak. He was the most experienced with Dark Arts of all of them and the strongest wizard, so to him had gone the task of holding the soul back.  
  
 _And_ you _need to be paying more attention to the Fiendfyre._  
  
Sure enough, the flames were licking around the limits that Harry had fought so hard to impose, trying to escape them. Harry cast the spell that would hold them in place again, and again, and then again, the syllables feeling as ineffective as though he were saying them in his sleep or in Parseltongue. The Fiendfyre churned and danced inwards, and Harry heard a loud _pop_ , which he hoped was the Stone being destroyed. His hands slipped on the wand with the amount of sweat coating them, and he felt as though his eyes would strain out of his head, so hard was he staring at Draco.  
  
*  
  
Severus understood what had gone wrong, of course. He had been present when the Dark Lord experimented with prisoners to make their spirits leave their bodies and enter objects, where he could torture them in new and innovative ways. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time that the Dark Lord might also be gaining information on ways the Horcruxes would behave, but only because he hadn’t known about the Horcruxes; the Dark Lord rarely did anything that had only one purpose.  
  
The Elder Wand had not been powerful enough to resist the Switching Charms Draco cast, and its essence had indeed entered the Resurrection Stone whilst the Stone’s essence entered its wood. But it was bonded enough to Draco, as its master, to yank his spirit along with its essence.  
  
Severus considered for a detached moment the pain that Draco was probably suffering as the Fiendfyre destroyed the Stone, but did not allow himself to consider the matter in any detail. That would only distract him from his double task of caging the bit of the Dark Lord’s soul and freeing Draco’s spirit before it could die.  
  
He had not observed the Dark Lord only. Before he was a spy, he had been a student of Dark magic, and so he had _learned_ as much as he could. He had only heard the Dark Lord speak the incantation to reverse the process of sending a spirit into an object once, but that was enough. He whispered it now, keeping his voice low so that Black could not hear the words and use them for mischief, as he undoubtedly would.  
  
The air shimmered and bent back on itself, grinding and tearing. As from a distance, Severus heard Harry cry out, and Narcissa. It was not them he was listening for, but a voice that spoke a moment later in surprise, and the scrape and flail of Draco’s hands against the floor.  
  
He had returned to his body, and the essence of the Elder Wand to itself. For a moment, a sharp green glow surrounded the Wand, as the essences of the Wand and the Stone fought for supremacy inside the elder wood. Severus fell back a step. He knew no spells that would control a battling pair of Deathly Hallows.  
  
Then Harry gave a great shout, and the Fiendfyre’s flames slammed together with a wail like a dying soul, which almost masked the Dark Lord’s own wail. The green glow above the Elder Wand dimmed, sinking into either end. Severus turned about and looked, though he already knew what he would see.  
  
The Resurrection Stone was gone, taking the essence of one of the Hallows with it. Only ashes were left, scattered across the silken bag that had held it.  
  
*  
  
Harry only waited to see the Stone crumble and the piece of soul vanish before he hurried around Snape to Draco. And then he found out that he couldn’t embrace him and snog the life out of him like he wanted, because Mrs. Malfoy was holding him in her arms and her head was bowed. Her eyes were shut tightly, as if she feared what she would do if she opened them.  
  
For the first time since fourth year, Harry felt a sting of jealousy. _Would Mum have done that for me, if she was alive and I was wounded fighting Voldemort? I reckon I’ll never know_. He absently rubbed his hands off on his trouser legs again and stepped back, doing his best to wait until Mrs. Malfoy was done.  
  
She stood up at last, still holding Draco, although he was pushing for her to let him go. He did get one hand free, so Harry could clasp that. Harry smiled into Draco’s eyes, then looked back at Mrs. Malfoy.  
  
“I didn’t do that to him,” he said, because her eyes were blaming and judging and he wanted it to _stop_. “Fighting Voldemort is dangerous. But he wants to do it.”  
  
“Yes, I do,” Draco said, breaking Harry’s impression that this was a silent contest between just him and Mrs. Malfoy. “Were you telling him otherwise, Mother?” He twisted around and frowned up at his mother. “I warned you not to do that. You can’t make me back away from him, or from this war.”  
  
Mrs. Malfoy wore no expression at all, a trick that Harry had sometimes seen his Aunt Petunia strive for, but never manage. “I did not tell him to make you back away, Draco,” she said. “I asked him why you were in danger, and he was unable to give me an honest answer.”  
  
“That’s not the way it happened,” Harry snarled, his worry over Draco transmuting in a sudden flash to anger. “She implied that I should have made you stay behind in Hogwarts, no matter what the cost was—”  
  
Snape slid in between them just then, grasping Draco’s chin and tilting his face back so that he could stare into his eyes. Harry didn’t hear him whisper the _Legilimens_ incantation, but was sure that was what he’d done. He let Draco go less than a minute later, though, with a small and satisfied grunt.   
  
“The Fiendfyre did you no mental harm whilst you were trapped in the Stone,” he said briskly. “Whether it did you _spiritual_ harm is, of course, beyond my ability to discern.”  
  
Mrs. Malfoy closed her eyes again. Understanding, for once, exactly how she felt, Harry clutched at Draco’s hand again.  
  
“I don’t think so,” Draco said, slowly, his words stumbling as if he were pulling on memories that escaped him. “It’s like a dream. I know there was pain, but I can’t remember being _in_ pain. If that helps.”  
  
“Good,” Harry said fiercely, and finally Mrs. Malfoy’s arms were weak enough that he could pull Draco into his own embrace. “What happened?” he asked Draco’s neck. His hands crept up and down Draco’s back and into his hair, touching every bit of skin he could find to make sure it was whole.  
  
“I used the Switching Charm to switch the essences of the Deathly Hallows, instead of switching the spirit in the Horcrux with something else,” Draco said. “It was supposed to propel the spirit out of the Stone and lessen whatever protections the Stone got _from_ being the Stone. That part worked. But I didn’t realize how deeply the Elder Wand was bonded to me, and it pulled me along for the ride. It’s dim, like a dream. Like I said.” His voice was wry, but his hands tightened like bone pincers on Harry’s shoulders.  
  
“But the Elder Wand still survived, didn’t it?” Harry asked. He half-turned his head to look at the Wand. “I mean, spiritually, and not just physically.”  
  
Draco nodded, his hair scratching Harry’s cheek. “Its essence was freed when Professor Snape freed me, and then it went back home. The Stone’s essence perished when the Stone ceased to exist.” He looked over Harry’s shoulder. “And it’s angry now, and wary,” he whispered. “I won’t catch it off-guard instead.”  
  
Harry pulled back to stare into his face. Draco’s voice wasn’t dismayed enough. He sounded grim, yes, but also smug. “You have an idea,” Harry said. “Don’t you? Something about destroying the Wand forever.”  
  
“Not just about that,” Draco said, but widened his eyes in a mock-innocent manner when Harry scowled at him. “I’m _tired_ , Harry,” he said.  
  
And though Harry didn’t believe that at all, and thought Draco had only said it to get out of talking about his idea, he had to accept it for the moment, especially since Mrs. Malfoy was trying to take Draco away from him again.  
  
*  
  
After the pain and confusion of destroying the Stone, destroying the tiara was comparatively easy. Draco made sure to keep his attention on the screaming spirit in the walls of Snape’s magic, however, and away from the Fiendfyre.  
  
Being trapped in the Stone _was_ like a dream, with the pain and the flames pressing close, the flames changing shape in his sight into dogs and centaurs and beasts without color or name, and the certainty of oblivion beyond all that. Draco knew he would have nothing worse than a few nightmares, but still, he didn’t wish to look at the thing that had almost killed him.  
  
He looked at the Elder Wand instead, and tasted its buzzing frustration, and savored the idea that had come to him.  
  
 _I know how to get the Horcrux out of Harry._


	29. Cup

  
The owl that tore through the window ruffled every piece of hair on Harry’s head and scratched his hand before it landed in the middle of the table, hooting frantically. Harry snatched the envelope away before he considered that maybe it was just a hysterical bird, and a hysterical bird could have nothing to do with the letter’s contents.  
  
But he tore the letter open anyway as he tossed the owl a piece of bacon from one of the few places on his breakfast plate not covered with feathers.  
  
Ron’s handwriting.  
  
 _Mate, we’re leaving Hogwarts. Finnigan showed up here last night and tried to kill us. Either the wards on Gryffindor Tower are too weak to for us to be safe, even if they’ve been strengthened now, or Finnigan knows a way around them from having You-Know-Who in his head—that’s what Hermione thinks—or there’s someone inside helping him. We want to meet you, but we don’t know if we can get into the house. Reply by means of this owl. He knows it’s urgent._   
  
Harry sat straight up, feeling as if he’d swallowed cinders rather than toast. For a long moment, his mind kept creating scenarios of Seamus trying to kill Ron and Hermione with Dark magic, each worse than the last, but in the end he shook his head furiously. If either of them was really injured, he was sure Ron would have said something about it in the letter, because that would affect how fast they could get out of Hogwarts.  
  
“Harry? What’s wrong?” Draco’s hand landed on his arm and gave it a comforting stroke.  
  
“Ron and Hermione were nearly victims of Seamus Finnigan last night.” Harry gave Draco a brave smile as he turned pale. “So they’re coming here. I’ll have to send back a letter with the exact Apparition coordinates and ask Sirius to attune the wards to them.”  
  
Draco pursed his lips, then nodded. Harry could have collapsed in relief. At least he wouldn’t make a fuss about having Harry’s best friends, or Gryffindors, or non-purebloods, or whatever other category he might have put them into, here.  
  
“I’m going to tell my mother,” he said, standing up. “I don’t think she’d protest, but she deals better with these things when she’s not taken by surprise.”  
  
“You’re telling me,” Harry muttered, thinking of the last conversation he’d had with Narcissa. All he had done was fall asleep in a chair by Draco’s bedside, holding his hand, but Narcissa, coming in to watch over her son, had reacted as though that gesture was something Voldemort could see from space.  
  
Draco’s eyes darkened. “She’s not as bad as she seems, Harry,” he said gently. “She’s only worried about what might happen to me if the Dark Lord realizes how important I am to you.” His eyelids fluttered rapidly over those last words, as if he wondered whether he was _really_ all that important to Harry. Or maybe he was just fishing for compliments. Though Harry knew Draco wouldn’t deliberately try to confuse him for the sake of confusion, as he might have when he considered himself more a Slytherin than Harry’s friend, there were some habits he couldn’t give up.  
  
“You _are_ massively important to me,” Harry said, and drew him into his arms for a gentle embrace and a kiss on the tip of the nose. Draco flushed, as if he didn’t know whether to be pleased or embarrassed. “And your mother can’t lessen that importance by ranting at me. I’m just frustrated.”  
  
Draco smiled at him. “That’s good to know,” he said, and bent his head until his mouth was right next to Harry’s ear. “I’ll show you how important _you_ are to _me_ later tonight.”  
  
He was out of the kitchen before Harry could blink. It took an agitated squawk from the owl to make him realize that he still had a letter to write and permission to ask of Sirius, and he tore out of the kitchen and up the stairs.  
  
*  
  
“Thanks, mate.”  
  
Ron’s voice had the sound of bone-deep exhaustion, and he almost fell into Harry’s arms as he reached out to shake his hand. Harry hugged him anxiously, his eyes darting to Hermione. She smiled back at him, but the smile only lasted an instant before it flickered out and she leaned against a tree and closed her eyes. The heavy October rain had plastered her hair to her face and made her robes waterlogged. She’d obviously been too tired to hold up an Impervious Charm.  
  
“We’re all right,” she said, her voice almost as dreamy as Luna Lovegood’s. “Neither of us is wounded. Not now.” She shuddered and opened her eyes. “But holding off the Dark magic, and then getting it out of the wounds so I could heal them…that was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life, Harry.”  
  
Wordlessly, Harry held out his other arm to her, and she grabbed it. He thought for a minute she would cry, but instead her hands just clenched in his robe until she might have choked him if his collar had been a little tighter. Harry stroked her hair and was silent.  
  
Snape and Draco had insisted on coming with him, of course, on the slight chance—which they thought more than slight—that it was one of Voldemort’s traps. But, as Harry had known they would, they’d found only Ron and Hermione waiting for them in the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. At least Snape and Draco had agreed to stand at a distance for a while so Harry could have some time alone with his best friends.  
  
“What happened?” he murmured, when he had decided that neither Ron nor Hermione would collapse in the next instant.  
  
Hermione sighed, but her voice was almost as sharp as when she was explaining some difficult Charm to him and Ron. “Everyone was jumpy yesterday, and there was this constant smell of ashes in the air. I thought Dark magic had been used somewhere around the school, but every time I cast a spell to confirm it, there was no evidence. Then Finnigan just appeared in the middle of the boys’ bedroom and tried to kill Ron.”  
  
Ron stirred. “He aimed this curse at me, but I remembered your lessons in dueling and avoided it,” he said, his voice dull but growing stronger. Harry thought he felt Ron’s lips move into a smile against his shoulder. “Sometimes just knowing how to dodge is a real advantage. Then Neville and Dean piled into him, and that gave me a chance to pick up my wand.”  
  
“And I had wards up to detect Dark magic,” Hermione put in, “so I ran up the stairs and joined the duel.” She stopped.  
  
Harry hugged her tighter and rested his chin on her head. He hadn’t seen Hermione in a few months, and was startled by how much he’d grown; he couldn’t have done that in May. “What happened?”  
  
“I’ve studied all the curses I can this summer,” Hermione said softly. “There’s only so much you can read about Horcruxes and basilisk venom, especially with as few books as the Hogwarts library has on those subjects. I know how to counter a lot of curses now, and I know about _kinds_ of curses, so even if I haven’t seen a particular one before, I can figure out what curse it’s most like and work on a defense from there.  
  
“This was magic I’d never seen before, Harry. And Finnigan was moving like a—like a _champion_ , like someone who’s spent lifetimes dueling. I don’t think Flitwick could have stood up against him.” She fell silent again, and shuddered.  
  
“He wounded Hermione.” Ron’s voice was a low growl. “He did something that made her body turn against her and wounds start erupting everywhere. Old scars opening, that kind of thing. I got angry and I—I think it was wild magic, honestly, Harry, because I can’t remember casting a spell. I made the pieces come out of my wizarding chess set and attack him. He was trying to blast them apart, but there were too many, so he Apparated. Otherwise I don’t think we would have survived.”  
  
“And he was trying to kill me and Ron,” Hermione whispered. “He pinned Neville and Dean to the wall, but he didn’t go after them again, and he didn’t try to escape the room. I think he’s Voldemort’s tool to make sure you suffer as much as possible. Ron and I think we’d be in more danger at the school, especially because we might get innocent people killed.” She lifted her head at last, and Harry could see terror in her eyes. He wondered abruptly how close she must have come to dying. Obviously Ron had left bad news out of his letter after all, maybe because he felt it could do no good to babble on about it when Harry would see them in a few hours. “He’s so dangerous, Harry. I hate that you’ll have to face him as well as the real Voldemort. He—”  
  
“He will not face the Dark Lord alone.”  
  
Apparently Draco and Snape thought that telling him about Seamus meant the end of time alone with Harry for Ron and Hermione, Harry thought wryly, as he felt Draco’s arm curl around his shoulders. He spent a moment leaning against all three of them, then stepped back and nodded. Ron had moved away from Draco without its being obvious—Harry hoped—but the last thing he wanted to start right now was an argument.   
  
“I know that they both want me to suffer,” he said. “I _do_ plan on taking it seriously. What I wish I knew is whether they’re acting separately, or whether the real Voldemort is commanding the spirit that’s possessing Seamus.”  
  
“Finnigan,” Draco said, with a small frown.  
  
Harry couldn’t tell what he was trying to say, so he ignored him and turned to Snape, who had emerged from the trees. “What do you think, Professor?” he asked.  
  
Snape turned his wand lightly between his fingers for a moment, studying Ron and Hermione narrowly. He didn’t think they were lying, Harry knew, or he would have said something about it by now. But he could think they were exaggerating in their terror. “I believe the Dark Lord does not know that we have been destroying his Horcruxes,” he whispered. “Otherwise, we would have seen more anger from him than we have. But I wonder how much empathy there is between the piece of his soul in Finnigan’s body and the piece still existing in his own. I would say they at least wish to accomplish the same goals.” He turned his head to point one finger at Harry. “That would explain why the spirit drove Finnigan to burn your possessions with that dangerous Dark spell, years before the Dark Lord had resumed his proper form.”  
  
“Does that mean that Voldemort might feel it when we try to free Seamus?” Harry frowned, thinking it out. “He didn’t feel it, or at least I don’t think he did, when we destroyed the other Horcruxes.” He was _sure_ that Voldemort would have come howling back into his head through the curse scar link and done his absolute best to destroy Harry if he was sure that he’d lost the Stone and the tiara.  
  
Snape and Draco exchanged a pair of unreadable looks, and then glanced at Ron and Hermione. To Harry’s utter astonishment, Ron brushed hair out of his eyes and nodded, and Hermione turned away. How in the world could _they_ understand what Snape and Draco were thinking about when Harry didn’t?  
  
“What?” he demanded. “Am I missing something obvious?”  
  
“Yes, you are,” Draco began, with an aggressive tone in his voice that made Harry bristle at once. Snape held up a hand, and Draco’s voice fell silent. He reluctantly tilted his head to the side and stepped out of the way.   
  
Snape knelt down in front of Harry. His eyes were intense, and they were intense with something like _compassion_. Harry stiffened his spine, sure he would hate whatever came next.  
  
“I do not believe there is any possibility of freeing Finnigan,” Snape said quietly. “None of us do. He will be destroyed when we destroy the Horcrux he holds. And it does not reassure us that you continue to refer to him by his first name and speak of freeing him as a matter of course, as if he were not an enemy. As well free Bellatrix.”  
  
“There’s a difference,” said Harry, and was surprised to hear that his voice had gone high and tight. He took a deep breath and linked his hands together behind his back. Everyone else seemed to be calm about this, so he would have to be, or there was the chance that they wouldn’t take him seriously. “Bellatrix chose to serve Voldemort. Seamus is a victim of Voldemort’s spirit possessing him, just like I was. Are you seriously going to argue that you and Draco shouldn’t have tried to save me in fifth year? Are you going to say that it was me and not Voldemort who hurt Sirius?”  
  
*  
  
 _The boy has learned to argue like a Slytherin_ , Severus thought with grudging respect. _Of course, he retains the Gryffindor custom of doing it at the most bloody inconvenient time._   
  
“That’s different,” Draco said, taking the first brunt of the attack. Severus was grateful. Of all of them, Harry was the most likely to listen to Draco—Severus wondered if Harry himself knew that—and Harry’s anger would have less effect on an acknowledged lover than it would on his friends, just reunited with him and still young, or on Severus himself, with the bond of trust between him and Harry not long repaired. “You were possessed for about half an hour. Finnigan’s been possessed for _years_. I don’t think he’s ever getting out of it. I don’t think there’s anything of him left in there.” He whirled and faced Granger and Weasley before Harry could protest. “What did he look like?”  
  
“His eyes were red.” Weasley was speaking in a calm, hard voice now. Severus raised his eyebrows. _That one might make a soldier after all_. “And something was wrong with the pupils. I think they were slit like a snake’s, but I didn’t get a good look at that.”  
  
“For understandable reasons,” Granger flared, stepping up beside her boyfriend and glaring at Severus as if she thought that he would blame Weasley for his lack of observational powers.  
  
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Harry snapped. “Red eyes don’t make you evil, or I’m evil already.” He gestured to eyes bloodshot with a lack of sleep.  
  
“You know this is different,” Draco said, folding his arms and leaning in so close that Severus experienced an uncomfortable prickle of foreboding. _If they begin to snog in front of me, I will conjure a bucket of cold water over them. I do not care how effective the method is for solving their arguments, this is neither the time nor the place_. “You know that Finnigan is lost and we have to kill him. You’re just making excuses.”  
  
“I don’t know _anything_.” Harry’s eyes had darkened the way they seldom did except when he was truly angry. He clenched his fists and leaned in until his nose almost touched Draco’s. Severus relaxed. At least they would probably punch each other instead of snog, now. “I haven’t seen Seamus. You or Snape haven’t tried Legilimency on him. I _know what that was like_. It was _horrible_. We have to try to free him.”  
  
“Your empathy makes your estimation of the situation unreliable,” said Severus, after he had watched Draco splutter for a few moments and guessed that the boy could not make the point that needed to be made. “You are the more likely to excuse Finnigan’s actions and leave his death until too late. That is another reason we will not let you face him alone.”  
  
Harry spun around to stare at him, spitting like a cat threatened with the loss of a mouse. “You _won’t_ kill him.”  
  
Severus met his gaze levelly, and said nothing. Unlike the torture of Bellatrix, this was not something about which he could make a promise. Considering that Finnigan appeared to know spells that Severus himself did not recognize or had thought were legend, he was probably more dangerous than Bellatrix ever had been.  
  
“You can’t,” said Harry, and there was a sharp note creeping into his voice, something that was not anger. “He’s alone. He’s friendless. He’s a victim. You can’t kill someone just—just because of what happened to them.”  
  
“But you can kill someone because of what they have done,” said Severus, “because of what they have become. If I had not turned my back on the Dark Lord, if I had not repented of my crimes, do you think Dumbledore would have been wrong to kill me? Or your parents? Or any of the Order of the Phoenix, if they could catch me?”  
  
Harry started to answer, and then paused. Instead, he began to pace in a circle around the clearing where he’d agreed to meet his friends. Now and then he stopped and kicked the dust, throwing up a cloud of it. Severus folded his hands across his waist and watched him without speaking. This was a decision that Harry had to make himself.  
  
 _Or it will be made without him_. Severus had seen the way Weasley was looking at Granger, which Harry probably hadn’t noticed yet. If Weasley caught Finnigan again and had the power, he would kill him without hesitation.  
  
Draco stepped forwards at last, and interrupted Harry’s circle, gripping his shoulders. Harry glared back. Severus thought that Lucius probably would have quailed before that gaze, but Draco held still, his face carved in deep lines.  
  
“Listen to me,” Draco said, his voice low and passionate, stinging. The rest of them might not have been there. “I want to know why you’ve _always_ been so reluctant to punish the people who hurt you. You held off on getting vengeance on Finnigan when it would have been your right. You didn’t want us to punish the Dursleys for abusing you; you said you’d rather forget them. You didn’t even want to hurt Dumbledore worse than you did for keeping information from us. And I think that old impression’s still holding on. You’re still acting as if the only thing Finnigan ever did was burn a few of your possessions.” He gave Harry a small shake. “Can’t you see that, even if _that_ was the only thing he’d ever done, we’d be justified in going after him?”  
  
“Going after him,” Harry breathed back. He looked distressed, but he shut his eyes in the next moment, cutting Severus off from both some observation of his emotions and any stray thoughts he might read with Legilimency. “Not killing him.”  
  
A sharp quiver at the corners of Draco’s mouth told Severus that he disagreed with that, but he pushed doggedly on. “And now Finnigan has tried to murder your two best friends, and hurt one of them pretty badly. I want to know why you’re _still_ defending him, and thinking we can get him out of this trap. I want to know that you’ll actually act to kill him, instead of hesitating, if that’s what you have to do.”  
  
Harry’s fingers drove into his palms, but he didn’t reply.  
  
*  
  
“Harry?” Draco made his voice as gentle as he could, but, inevitably, it still came out as stern. He _needed_ an answer.  
  
They couldn’t go after the Horcrux like this—and they would have to go after Finnigan to retrieve the final Horcrux other than Nagini herself or the one in Harry’s mind and soul. Draco had to know that Harry would stand behind him without flinching if they were required to kill Finnigan, which they probably would be. Draco had seen the damage, both mental and physical, that a short contact with the Dark Lord’s mind had wrought on Harry. And Harry had a determination and will that Draco still found fascinating and hard to struggle with. Finnigan didn’t have that, and the possession had had years to strengthen.  
  
“Because I wish someone had rescued me,” Harry said at last, softly, reluctantly.  
  
Draco frowned. Yes, he’d wanted an answer, but it still needed to be one that made sense, or they couldn’t use it. “What?”  
  
“I lived ten years in a cupboard,” Harry said, his voice low but growing stronger, “with people who despised me. They told me all the time that I was evil, and that I was a freak, and that my parents wouldn’t have died if they hadn’t deserved it.” He lifted his head, and Draco felt physically forced to take a step back from the fire in his eyes. “But I told myself that I wasn’t evil, again and again, and someday someone would agree with me. And _that happened_. So how can I think that someone else is evil, without giving them a chance? Voldemort is the only really evil person I’ve ever met. I think Seamus is sitting in his cupboard in his mind, waiting to be rescued. I have to try.”  
  
Draco reached out and wrapped his hands around both of Harry’s. He felt very still, as though someone had slapped him, and full of love and grief.  
  
 _How can I make him understand that this is different? How can I make him see that it’s about saving our lives, more than it is about abandoning Finnigan? In some ways, this would have been easier if he’d seen more people die._  
  
“Maybe he is,” he said quietly. “But what if you can’t get him out, Harry? You could be kind to him, but the Dark Lord is the one controlling his body, and the Dark Lord is, as you said, evil. He won’t listen to reason.”  
  
“Professor Snape could go in and rescue him the way he did me,” Harry said, blinking slowly, as if Draco were stupid.  
  
“The only reason I managed to do that,” Professor Snape said, his voice harsh, Draco thought, to disguise his own grief, “is that I knew your mind well, and I—cared for you, and I was able to get you to trust me in return. I do not think that Mr. Finnigan, after spending so much time in the company of a mad monster, will even know the difference any more between a true helping hand and the projections that monster uses to torment him.”  
  
Harry took a deep breath and shut his eyes. “Then I’ll have to try.”  
  
“You don’t know how to use Legilimency well enough,” Draco snapped back at once. He didn’t have to think. For one thing, it didn’t matter how well-trained Harry was; Draco wouldn’t have trusted _himself_ with a project like rescuing someone’s mind from a possession. It was a miracle that Snape had managed it. And for another, Draco would Body-Bind Harry and take his wand away and risk losing his love forever before he’d let Harry risk himself for bloody Seamus Finnigan like that.  
  
“I’ll have to try something else, then.” Harry opened his eyes, his face smooth and so stubborn that Draco knew he could break himself on it and change nothing. “You have your answer about why I don’t punish people who hurt me, Draco. We have Ron and Hermione, and I know that we’ll have to hunt Seamus down to get the fifth Horcrux. But for right now, there’s nothing else I’m conceding.”  
  
He pushed past Draco, walked over to Weasley and Granger, and began to speak gently to them. Granger put her head on his shoulder and wept. Weasley opened his mouth as if he would argue with Harry about Finnigan, and then shut it again.  
  
Draco turned and met Professor Snape’s eyes.  
  
He knew what was in them, because it was the same thing in his mind.  
  
Harry would do what was right, what was admirable, what was brave and heroic.  
  
They would do what was necessary.

*

  
“So.” Ron had a heavy presence when he wanted to, Harry thought wryly. His voice had deepened since the last time Harry saw him, and his hands, folded in his lap now the way that Mrs. Malfoy liked to fold them, looked big and solid. His eyes stared straight at Harry’s and wouldn’t let him look aside.  
  
“What’s happening between you and Malfoy?”  
  
 _Well_. It wasn’t like Harry hadn’t expected this question. He took a deep breath and shifted his position a little. He was sitting in one of the library chairs, with Ron not far from him. He wished for a moment that they were elsewhere, the air here felt so stifling, but that was silly. Would he have preferred the kitchen, where anyone might walk in? Or the bedroom where he slept with Draco? His eyes would be going over to the bed and he would be imagining all sorts of scenes to make Ron blush with every second.  
  
“Mate?”  
  
“I’m dating him,” Harry said. “And sleeping with him.” No need to keep that concealed, when Ron would figure it out the moment he saw Draco trail an absent, possessive hand through Harry’s hair.  
  
Ron blanched and clutched the arms of the chair as if he would fall out of it, and Harry wondered for a moment if he _should_ have kept that concealed, for Ron’s sake. But pride pushed out the guilt, and he lifted his chin. _Why should I have to hide it? Ron and Hermione didn’t hide it when they started dating. Or not well enough, anyway._  
  
“I—I expected that,” Ron said.  
  
“So that’s why you looked as though someone just tried to rip your head off your shoulders,” Harry muttered.  
  
Ron ignored him to take a deep steadying breath and say, “And he’s been—helping you hunt for the Horcruxes? I thought Snape said something about your killing the tiara and the Resurrection Stone.”  
  
Harry nodded. “Both of them are ashes now. We used Fiendfyre instead of the basilisk venom.” He rubbed his hands absently on his robes to get rid of the sweat that covered them when he remembered Draco’s spirit getting sucked into the Stone. “And he’s been really great, Ron. Clever, and helping me with my research.”  
  
“Good,” Ron said. He hesitated. “Mate, I’m sorry we couldn’t get the venom for you.”  
  
Harry looked up and smiled tiredly at him. “Don’t be. Dumbledore used the venom to destroy the locket. It makes sense that he would think we were going after it for the other Horcruxes and place a guard on the Chamber.” He shook his head. “I just wish we were working _together_ on this, instead of against each other.”  
  
“You said the Stone was destroyed,” Ron said tentatively. “Couldn’t you tell him that and get him back as an ally that way? Once he knows he has no chance of using it, maybe he would—”  
  
“I’d try that if I was sure we could trust him.” Harry rubbed his face. “Not only trust him to be on our side and agree that it’s a good thing _all_ the Horcruxes are destroyed, but also trust him not to try and take control of everything, the way he has a habit of doing. This mission isn’t Hogwarts, but I’m afraid he would try to run it as if it were.” He peered around his fingers at Ron. “He started keeping a tighter control in the school in the last few months, didn’t he?”  
  
Ron nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It wasn’t just the guard on the Chamber of Secrets, it was imposing curfews and wanting to talk to me and Hermione all the time. I could see him doing that with people he thought were loyal to You-Know-Who, but what had _we_ done?” He scowled, and Harry thought that any chance Dumbledore might have had of winning Ron’s allegiance the way he’d won the allegiance of his parents was gone.  
  
 _Stupid insight_ , he thought a moment later.  
  
“Supported me,” said Harry. “Tried too hard to be independent of him. I don’t think Dumbledore really knows what to use his power for. At times he’d afraid of using it too much, and then he’ll reach out and wield it like a whip.” He shrugged. “We can’t trust him. Thanks for confirming that. And—for what you did in the school. I can’t thank you enough.” He reached out and gripped Ron’s wrist hard enough to hurt.  
  
Ron squeezed back. There was a serenity and a sternness in his eyes that Harry thought was unique to him. Harry smiled. Draco was his lover, but Ron was his best friend, and no one was ever going to replace him.  
  
“How’s Bill?” he asked, suddenly realizing he hadn’t had any news about the other Weasleys since Ron sent him the letter detailing the attack. “And your mum?”  
  
“Recovering,” said Ron, and his voice and smile both held grim pride. “Eager to go out hunting Death Eaters again. I thought Mum might make Bill stay behind in safety, but she’s just as angry as he is that they attacked the Burrow. Right now, they’re having a hard time finding Death Eaters. You-Know-Who won’t confront the Order of the Phoenix.” He leaned forwards. “I think he’s hoping to lure you out of hiding and kill you that way.”  
  
Harry nodded. “I’m sure he is. But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. I know that I can’t kill him anyway until all the Horcruxes are destroyed, and that’s not true yet.”  
  
Ron squeezed his wrist a second time. “I think that Malfoy’s been good for you,” he said abruptly. “You look prouder of yourself, and calmer, and happier. And if sleeping with him—” he shuddered delicately “—is necessary for you to do that, well, then I think it’s a good thing you are.”  
  
And he stood up and slipped out of the library, leaving Harry behind to blink at the wall in astonishment. Then he grinned.  
  
 _I think everything on the Draco-and-best-friends front might be all right. Maybe not with the Horcruxes, or with Mrs. Malfoy. But my friends are still my friends, and they’ll probably understand how important Draco is to me._  
  
*  
  
“What are you doing? Can I help you with it? That’s a book on Dark Arts, isn’t it? I wonder why the Hogwarts library didn’t have it?”  
  
Draco had to bite his lip as he listened to Granger’s chatter. She had picked up one of the books he’d laid in out in a neat fan pattern on the table, so that he could consult them as he needed, and now she gasped as she looked at the title. It would have been so much _easier_ to research the way he’d thought of to get the Horcrux out of Harry if she’d left him alone.  
  
“You can help me if you shut up and let me explain what I’m doing,” Draco snapped.   
  
As he had thought it would, that made Granger stop speaking and look at him in silent indignation. Draco didn’t care. As long as she didn’t go storming off to Harry in tears and complain that Draco was _mean_ , or interfere with his research, then he didn’t care. The second would mean that he might not be able to destroy the Horcrux in Harry, and the first would mean that Harry wouldn’t sleep with him for a while. Neither was acceptable.  
  
“I’m trying to find a way to destroy the bit of the Dark Lord’s soul that he left in Harry’s soul,” Draco said. “It’s another Horcrux, and we _have_ to destroy it so that Harry can kill the Dark Lord. But if we try to destroy it the same way we’ve taken care of the others, then that might mean killing Harry. I _won’t_ let that happen.” He expected some argument from Granger about how of course he would let it happen because he was evil, but though her eyes widened, they remained fixed on him, and she said nothing. Draco nodded sharply. _Good._   
  
“I’ve used Switching Charms on two of the other Horcruxes,” he said. “I think I can use a modified Switching Charm on Harry to expel the Horcrux from his body. But it’ll be tricky, and I have to be careful, and I don’t understand very much about the source of power I want to use.” He looked at the Elder Wand, lying “innocently” on the table.  
  
“A wand?” Granger asked witlessly.  
  
“The Elder Wand,” Draco said tightly. “One of the Deathly Hallows, to which my soul is bound, and which pulled me with it when I switched its essence with the essence of the Resurrection Stone in destroying _that_ Horcrux. If I can master the Wand, then I can use it to power the spell to save Harry. But I have to understand all about the bond to my soul first, and how to use it instead of letting it use me.”  
  
Granger’s eyes widened again, and then she looked back and forth between Draco and the Wand as if she would be able to see the bond. Draco rolled his eyes, and tried to keep a tolerant expression on his face. He knew Granger was good at research; he knew she could probably help him with this difficult and complicated bit of switching. But if she had some odd moral scruples about the Dark Arts, or if she thought that the Elder Wand deserved to be treated with some sort of “respect” that Draco had no intention of giving it, then he would put a Memory Charm on her and kick her out of the library. Saving Harry’s life was too important to have anyone interfering with it.  
  
 _Even if it_ does _mean a lack of sex_.  
  
“I think I understand,” Granger said at last, slowly, but with excitement gathering in the back of her voice like a forest fire beginning to burn. “I don’t know anything about magical bonds between souls and not much about the Deathly Hallows, but—”  
  
 _That makes it better_ , Draco silently completed the sentence. If the very idea of new knowledge made Granger’s eyes burn like that, he knew he couldn’t ask for a better research partner.  
  
“You’ll have to look into the Dark Arts,” he said, just to make sure.  
  
Granger waved her hand. “ _Knowing_ something isn’t evil,” she said. “I don’t have any plans to cast Dark spells.”  
  
Draco bit back an amused chuckle—how horrified Dumbledore would be if he could hear her talk like that, his perfect pet Gryffindor whom he’d probably hoped would tame any “Dark” tendencies in Harry—and shoved two of the books at her. “Get started, then. We’re looking for ways to make the bond more flexible, so I can use it to my advantage instead of doing what the Wand wants.”  
  
“Not break the bond, then.” Granger’s fingers hovered over the books as though she were frightened to touch them, whilst she gazed thoughtfully at him.  
  
“If I meant that, I would have said that,” Draco snapped, and then took a deep breath and did his best to soothe his ruffled feelings as Granger began to look a bit ruffled herself. “But yes, I don’t want to break the bond. Not yet. I want some means of controlling it,” he said, and smiled at the Elder Wand. “That will frustrate it.”  
  
The Wand buzzed at him in warning. Draco rolled his eyes. Since the incident with his soul being pulled into the Stone, he hadn’t used the bloody thing to cast a single spell. It had ceased to impress him with its vibrations and its silent call for him to pick it up. He had more important things to think about than sheer magical power.  
  
 _Such as how to get the Horcrux out of Harry, and how to prevent Harry from destroying himself if he tries to rescue Finnigan._  
  
*  
  
Severus stepped down the front stairs of Grimmauld Place, and then paused. Usually he was the first person up, excepting the dirty house-elf, who never seemed to sleep properly and wandered about the house muttering. But now a light blazed in the kitchen, and he could hear a series of low, tearing sounds, as though someone where shredding paper.  
  
Or sobbing.  
  
He looked carefully around the doorframe, his hand on his wand, but his body held silent. If he had disturbed the Granger girl weeping over an insult from her boyfriend, then of course there was no need to involve himself.  
  
But he saw Harry sitting with something cradled in his hands and tears trickling down his face, silent other than the hollow sobs working their way up from his chest every now and then, and he realized that he must interfere. The last thing he knew, Harry had been happily going upstairs to the bedroom he shared with Draco.   
  
He slid his wand back into his pocket and approached.  
  
Harry didn’t appear to notice him, no matter that his shoes scraped and his robes rustled on the kitchen floor, which allowed Severus to come quite near and glimpse what Harry held in his hands. It was a deep red and had a black edging. And it might have appeared shapeless, but not to someone who had, in his time, used human organs for potions he brewed among the Death Eaters.  
  
Severus closed his eyes for a moment. _So it begins. I did wonder how long the Dark Lord would leave him in peace without doing something like this._   
  
But he effortlessly transformed the pain into anger, because Harry was the one who needed to feel pain right now without the obligation to comfort someone else, and placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder.  
  
“He can send you their hearts,” he whispered, “but he cannot torment them any longer. And in time, you will wreak such a vengeance on him as to make him sorry that he ever contemplated hurting them.”  
  
Harry leaned towards him, too weary and sorrowful to be surprised by the touch, Severus thought. He lifted his head, and his eyes were scored with red around the rims, his lips trembling. “But he sent me the heart of someone who wasn’t even involved in the war,” he whispered.  
  
Severus began to massage Harry’s shoulders, keeping up the calming motion even when Harry stiffened and shrugged as if he would like to throw off his hands. Harry needed such touches at the moment, whether or not he recognized it. “Whose was it?” he asked. “I assume he has told you.”  
  
Harry nodded at the table. Severus followed his gaze and noted a thick box stained red-brown and a crumpled piece of parchment for the first time. So intent had he been on Harry that he hadn’t thought to look for the container that had brought the heart and the note that must have come with it. “Dennis Creevey’s,” he whispered. “Colin’s little brother. Colin was the boy who used to follow me around with his camera.” He shut his eyes, looking ill for the first time. “He was Muggleborn, so I reckon he deserved to die.”  
  
But then his voice broke, for all his attempts to put cynicism into it, and he bowed his head into his arms and was silent.  
  
Severus enchanted the note to hover in the air, because he did not trust even the Dark Lord’s simplest communication to be without traps. It said only what Harry had told him, though, giving the name of the victim and bragging about how he would send many more. Then Severus cast a spell on Harry that should let him know if Harry had acquired a curse from touching the note and the box. Nothing appeared.  
  
Severus Levitated the heart out of the boy’s hands. Harry looked up, blinking. His face was pale and green at the same time, as if he had vomited when he first unwrapped the heart, though Severus had seen no sign of that. His hands were stained with blood.  
  
“You have sat here long enough,” Severus told him, keeping his voice level and low. No need, yet, to wake up the others in the house. Narcissa would not understand the boy’s mourning someone who had not been within the inner circle of his friends, and the time was not right for Granger’s, or Weasley’s, or even Draco’s comfort. “Yes, he will try to destroy your resolve by slaughtering those you care about and sending their organs to you. He did it often in the first war.”  
  
Harry swallowed and nodded. The green shade to his face deepened, but so did the shine of outrage in his eyes. Severus saw that and approved.  
  
“But you must not let that resolve be destroyed.” Severus squeezed Harry’s shoulder again, staring into his eyes. “You must think of defense instead, and the best way to destroy the Horcruxes as soon as possible.”  
  
Harry licked his lips. “I thought of that,” he said hoarsely. Severus was not sure whether weeping or anger had more affected his voice. “But I don’t know where Seamus is, and I think the Horcrux he has would be with him. I have to break that one first before we go after Nagini and—and the one in me.” He made a gesture at his forehead with one clenched fist, lowering it hastily, as if touching his scar would soil him.  
  
Severus held back his impulse to correct Harry’s use of Finnigan’s first name. Now was not the time for _that_ , either. “Yes, we have to find him,” he said. “And there are ways. But they are Dark Arts.”  
  
Harry gave him a small, grim smile. “I’ve learned curses already,” he said. He looked again at the heart, which Severus was tucking back into its bloody box. “I can do this.” His eyes hardened, suddenly, and Severus thought that the Dark Lord would have hesitated if he could have seen Harry’s gaze in that instant. “And I can make Voldemort sorry that he ever decided to come back from the dead.”  
  
Severus opened his mouth, and closed it again. He had assumed, when he was listening to Harry speak with glorious folly about his decision to rescue Finnigan, that he would welcome some evidence of bloody-mindedness on Harry’s part. And now he realized that it distressed him, and that he would much rather have heard Harry protest the use of Dark Arts and repeat some rambling Gryffindor lesson on how they were evil.  
  
 _But he has said that the Dark Lord is the only evil person he knows_ , Severus reminded himself as he stared into Harry’s calm, glassy eyes. _His decision to fight him is neither new nor inappropriate._   
  
“Very well,” he said. “The potion uses—and destroys—one of your memories of Finnigan. You will need to choose one that you don’t mind sacrificing, and which is not one you should keep so that you know how to fight him.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes and nodded. A moment later, he looked up at Severus again. “I have one,” he said. “It’s from first year, just him in the flying lessons. It doesn’t have anything to do with how he fights or what he did when he burned my possessions.”  
  
 _Child, I am sorry you should have had to learn how to make such distinctions_. But at the same time, Severus could not truly lament it. If Harry had been an ordinary boy, he would have grown up with his parents, and Severus would never have had a chance to feel compassion for him.  
  
“Concentrate on that memory,” he ordered, and when Harry nodded again, he laid his wand alongside Harry’s temple. At the same moment as he whispered the Legilimency spell, he used another spell, nonverbally, that created a mental “hawk” which stooped on the memory and hauled it out of Harry’s head.  
  
Harry gave a sharp cry, but then lapsed back into quick panting. Severus closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was thinking mostly about the silvery strand of memory, which lay coiled across the palm of his hand like an eel. _Must I never touch his mind except to hurt him?_  
  
No recriminations came from Harry, though. He just opened his eyes and said, “Do you need my help brewing the potion?”  
  
“No,” Severus said, and let his hand brush, gently as a thought, over Harry’s hair. “You should go back to bed. And in the morning, tell Black about the wards that permitted the owl’s passage. He may need to strengthen them, if the Dark Lord can send birds that find you here.”  
  
“The owl was glowing when it came in,” Harry said, and yawned massively. He scrubbed his hands together, as if he could get the blood off them that way. Severus cast a silent _Scourgify_ , and Harry jumped as the spell tingled across his palms, but smiled at Severus. “Then it vanished into a collection of sparks when it dropped the box. I think it was probably made of magic, and that was why the wards couldn’t stop it.”  
  
Severus breathed a little more easily. He recognized that spell, and whilst it would indeed permit delivery of a message to any recipient, no matter how well-warded, it would not permit the one who had cast the spell to follow the conjured bird. And it was not a spell that could have left contamination on the box or the note, either.  
  
“Professor?”  
  
Severus looked down. Harry was staring up at him with haunted eyes.  
  
“It’s not my fault, is it?” he asked.  
  
Severus, moving slowly so that he wouldn’t startle Harry, put his hand on the boy’s—the young man’s—shoulder again, and shook his head, never looking away from his eyes or blinking. “It is the fault of the Dark Lord’s madness, and nothing more,” he whispered.  
  
Harry leaned his head against Severus’s palm for just a moment, and then turned and ran away up the stairs.  
  
Severus, who had originally risen because he hadn’t been able to sleep and for no other reason, found himself with a potion to brew and a long day ahead.  
  
*  
  
Draco opened his eyes and blinked. Sticky strands of sleep made his eyelids cling together, and so for several moments prevented him from getting a glimpse of Harry’s face as Harry nestled against him.  
  
Then he did see him, and sat up fast, reaching out to cradle Harry’s cheek in his palm. “What _happened?_ ” he whispered. He didn’t think it was any ordinary nightmare that had made Harry cry like that, and anyway Harry’s thrashing would have woken him up if it was a vision from the Dark Lord.  
  
“Something I’ll tell you about in the morning,” Harry whispered back, and crowded into Draco, knees hitting knees and elbows striking elbows. He fastened his lips to the side of Draco’s neck and sucked hard. Draco tipped forwards, his mouth opening as he gasped. He tried to respond, but Harry slipped a hand under his shirt before he could and sharply pinched one nipple. Draco ground helplessly into Harry’s leg in response.  
  
“Make me forget,” Harry said to him, his voice low but burning. “Please, Draco.” He rolled onto his back and pulled Draco on top of him, but his mouth had already gone back to Draco’s neck and his fingers to his nipple.  
  
And Draco, following the pull of his love and his lust and his understanding of Harry gained over the years, did his best to obey.

*

  
“He’s a _bastard_ , Harry. Just a _bastard_.”  
  
Harry smiled a little and gripped Ron’s shoulder. “I know,” he murmured. “Thanks for saying that.”  
  
“I just wish I could kill him for you,” Ron muttered, spinning his wand violently in his hand. Draco eyed him askance, but Harry ignored that. Just because Draco would never show his emotions so openly in front of people who weren’t Harry or his mother or Professor Snape didn’t mean Ron was being undignified. “Stupid immortal You-Know-Who, sticking pieces of his soul in things that we have to destroy.”  
  
“I quite agree, Mr. Weasley,” said Professor Snape in a strained voice. “But for the moment, I am still trying to brew this potion so that we can, as you put it, destroy the _things_ , so if you would kindly shut up?”  
  
Ron scowled and started to say something else, but Hermione gripped his other shoulder and shook it, hard. Ron fell silent with a disgruntled sigh. Harry caught his eye and smiled sympathetically. He himself didn’t know why Snape had called them all into his potions lab when he still had work to do and obviously hated the distraction.  
  
 _You know why._   
  
Harry shifted uneasily. All right, so he did. Snape had wanted Harry to witness the final steps in creating the potion that would find Seamus, as if he thought that would somehow reassure Harry and make him less prone to do something stupid, but he’d had the bad fortune to step into the library and announce he was almost finished when Harry was in the middle of a strategy meeting with Ron, Hermione, and Draco. All of them had insisted on coming along. Hermione appeared to have pure intellectual curiosity, Draco didn’t want to leave Harry alone, and Ron came because the others did.  
  
 _This is a sacrifice that Snape is making for you, the way he did when he got Voldemort out of your head_ , Harry told himself, and tried not to crane his neck so that he could see into the vial Snape was working with. It had a violent purple glow, the liquid seamed with streaks and cracks of blue like lightning bolts. It was enough to see that much. He knew Snape hated it when someone got closer. _Be grateful._   
  
Abruptly, Snape laid the vial down on the table he’d been standing over and retreated several steps, aiming his wand at it. Harry caught his breath at the expression on his face. He’d seen Snape _cautious_ before, particularly when he was trying to tell the story of his friendship with Harry’s mother without giving too much away, but he’d never seen him act afraid of a potion like this.  
  
 _This is Dark Arts_ , Snape’s warning from last night echoed in his mind, and Harry wondered for a moment if they should even be here. But then he shook his head. Snape might be arrogant and forgetful of the needs of lesser mortals, but he would never willingly expose Harry and Draco to danger.  
  
The potion began to bubble and boil against the glass of the vial. Harry could see large flat clouds appearing, and he jumped when a sharp crack echoed through the room. Had the glass begun to crack because of the heat involved? Or for some other reason? Could the potion actually _attack_ them? The way Snape was holding his wand seemed to suggest that.  
  
Snape raised the wand higher and spat several words that were not Latin. Harry didn’t know _what_ they were, but he shuddered as he listened. The words dug fishhooks into his brain and slithered down his spine to his feet like serpents with metallic legs.  
  
The vial swayed back and forth, and Harry thought he heard someone else’s voice, someone who was angry and speaking in the same language Snape had. The vial did crack this time, but the potion inside it jogged up and down, like a gas held in place, rather than spilling out in liquid form all at once.  
  
Snape sounded stern rather than frightened when he spoke this time, and Harry saw a silver light surround the crack, healing and holding it. Another flat bubble mashed against the glass, but vanished when Snape swept his wand down with a cutting motion.  
  
The vial vibrated, spun around, and then quieted. Snape came forwards a step and picked it up, staring into it. Harry flinched, imagining some creature with sharp teeth inside the vial leaning out and eating his eye, but Snape seemed satisfied. He turned to Harry with a thin smile.  
  
“Your potion,” he said. “It will lead you to Finnigan if you use it carefully.”  
  
“Me?” Harry took the potion from Snape and tried not to feel that he was juggling the vial. He’d half-suspected that he’d have to be the one to use the potion, since it was his memory that was needed to brew it, but Snape and Draco were the Potions experts; Harry had never come to feel comfortable with a cauldron no matter carefully Snape instructed him.  
  
“You.” Snape leaned closer to him. “I will be here,” he said, in a voice whose intensity Harry knew Ron and Hermione wouldn’t understand. They’d probably think of it as a threat, or a scolding, an offer to take the potion away from Harry if he messed up.  
  
Harry understood it as protection, reassurance. He relaxed and let the vial lie in his palm, reminding himself that it _had_ to be harmless, that Snape would never have handed it to him otherwise. “What do I need to do?”  
  
“You will use three drops of the potion in a test, first,” said Snape, and aimed his wand at the back of the lab. A wire cage came soaring out, containing a rat like the one he’d used to test his vengeance potion back in Harry’s second year. “Give it to the rat, and we will watch what happens.”  
  
“You want to test it on a defenseless animal?” Harry winced. He’d forgotten how shrill Hermione’s voice could get when she was angry. “That’s—”  
  
“Much less painful than killing a defenseless Muggleborn,” Draco said harshly, and crowded close to Harry, his hand hovering, as if he would administer the potion himself if he could. “The way that the Dark Lord will do _again_ , unless we can find the Horcruxes and destroy them.”  
  
“I’m willing to do it,” Harry murmured, in a weighted tone that he hoped would shut Hermione up. He was remembering how the rat had reacted to the potion Snape had designed for Seamus now, all those years ago, and he didn’t want to think about that. “I’ve learned curses, and I’ve gone against Dumbledore. I can’t let that all be for nothing.” He walked up to the cage, which had landed on the lab table. The rat inside turned around near its own tail and looked up at him with bright eyes.  
  
“Three drops _only_ ,” said Snape. “More than that will lead to unpredictable effects.”  
  
Harry wanted to ask what those unpredictable effects were, but he held his tongue instead, and uncorked the vial. The liquid inside seemed to leap onto his fingers unnaturally fast, and it certainly clung more than it should have. Harry held out his finger, glancing at Snape as he did so. He felt stupid. Was he supposed to simply present the drops to the rat, or conjure them onto a piece of cheese, or what? And would Snape expect him to have known this already?  
  
But the drops began to fall off his finger the moment it was near the rat’s mouth, and the rat actually stood on its hind legs and stretched its whiskers up to receive them. Harry shivered. He could see why the potion might be considered Dark Arts, if it was somehow controlling the animal to make it accept the potion.  
  
The rat widened its jaws to an extent that looked uncomfortable, making Harry shudder. But the drops had already pulled away from him, and the shudder couldn’t interrupt their descent. The rat stuck out its tongue to catch them.  
  
Then it fell to all fours and began to shake.  
  
Hermione gave a muffled scream. Harry clutched the vial harder and didn’t turn to look at her. _This is far from the worst thing you’ll have to do, if you really use the Dark Arts_ , he reminded himself.  
  
The rat spun around, but not as though it was trying to run away—more as if it were on a plate that someone else, someone outside it, was spinning. Its nose pointed towards the far corner of the cage, and it quivered. Then its body began to pulse with the same vivid, blue-seamed purple light that had shone through the potion when Snape was brewing it.  
  
It squealed. The sound quickly became so high-pitched that Harry couldn’t hear it, and the rat quivered all over, its paws tapping an unnatural dance rhythm on the cage floor. Then it lifted from the floor and shot towards the wire.  
  
Harry gaped. Snape was the one who stuck out his wand and yelled, “ _Petrificus Totalus_!”  
  
The rat came to a stop, hanging in mid-air halfway between its cage and the wall of the lab. It had passed through the cage wire as though that barrier didn’t even exist, Harry thought in a daze. He blinked and licked his lips. The rat was running in place, its paws scrabbling frantically at the air.  
  
“What does the potion do?” he whispered.  
  
“Turns the one who swallows it into a tracking hound to find Finnigan,” said Snape, his voice deep. Harry glanced up at him in wonder. The fear he’d showed when brewing the potion was gone. Now he sounded the way he did when someone, usually Draco, managed to achieve a rare perfect potion in his class. “Of course, a rat cannot control its reaction to the potion, and will shoot away like a firework to find the target. A human can reason out the direction the pull comes from, and go slowly enough to enable his allies to come up with plans to breach the target’s defenses.” He turned and looked at Harry. “Are you willing to play that role?”  
  
“You know I am,” Harry retorted, but he felt a little glow of happiness in his chest that Snape had asked him. That, and the small shard of uncertainty he could see in Snape’s eyes, were the only assurances he needed. Dumbledore wouldn’t have asked him if he wanted to use the potion; he would have assumed that _of course_ Harry was only too happy to do something that might help get rid of Voldemort, however indirectly. But Snape cared about him.  
  
 _That combination of words would never have occurred to me only a year ago_ , he thought in something like contentment, and then looked down at the potion.  
  
“When do you want to use it?” he demanded.  
  
“We must have some time first, so that we may gather our weapons and prepare for every likely eventuality.” Snape picked up the cork Harry had put down on the table and handed it back to him. With reluctance, Harry capped the vial. Snape waved his wand, and the rat vanished, along with the wire cage. Harry heard an intake of breath that was probably Hermione opening her mouth to demand where they’d gone, but she grunted instead. Harry smothered a grin. Ron must have restrained _her_ this time. “And we should revise that which we know we will need when we arrive, such as the Fiendfyre incantation and the Switching Charm modifications.”  
  
Harry nodded in silence. A pulse like a second heartbeat raced through him, and he suddenly remembered that, when they arrived at their destination—wherever that was—they would need to confront Seamus.  
  
Whom he still didn’t know how to fight. Whom he still wanted to forgive.  
  
Harry clenched his hands for a moment, then willed himself to relax. For one thing, he might crush the vial if he clutched it too hard, and that meant Snape would have to brew the Dark potion all over again.  
  
For another, then the others might guess his feelings, and Harry wasn’t in the mood for another argument right now.  
  
Snape was already bustling around the lab, picking up certain potions, scowling thoughtfully at them, and then shaking his head and putting them down again. On occasion, he tucked one into a robe pocket. Hermione and Ron were in a soft-voiced but intense discussion that sounded like they were comparing spells they’d looked up in the Hogwarts library, trying to decide what would be most useful. Draco had already vanished upstairs; Harry knew he would fetch the Elder Wand.  
  
 _They’re thinking of the things we need to fight Seamus and one of the Horcruxes.  
  
Well, I’m thinking about that, too._  
  
*  
  
Draco shuddered. He knew that it had been necessary to brew the potion and to have Harry drink it—how else would they find Finnigan, who had Apparated in and out of the school, impossibly, and certainly wouldn’t show up conveniently to tell them where he was?—but he disliked seeing the potion turn Harry into little more than a carrier pigeon for their intentions.  
  
Harry didn’t turn purple, the way the rat had, but a subtle shine informed his skin, like the shade that Draco had seen around a black eye. His head also turned to the west, and he stood there, facing that direction, whilst Granger and the Weasel made all sorts of anxious last-minute preparations—  
  
And whilst Professor Snape argued with Black.  
  
“You cannot accompany us,” Snape was saying, his normally polished voice dropping into harsher tones. He’d been arguing for ten minutes already, and Black showed no signs of yielding. “You are still injured, and there is no telling what we will encounter at the site of Finnigan’s home. You could be dangerous to us in any number of ways.”  
  
“That’s exactly why I should go,” Black said, his eyes brilliant and angry, his twisted hand making expansive gestures. The fingers on that hand _did_ seem to be less cramped than before, Draco thought, but Black would have been hard put to it to hold a wand normally. “You don’t know what you’ll find. You could need an Animagus, or someone to protect Harry who’s a fully-trained wizard.”  
  
“I am more than capable of that, Black.” Snape’s voice had descended into a hiss that would have done credit to a whole nest full of cobras.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Black’s voice turned dangerously sweet. Draco experienced a fleeting thought that it was in tones of voice that Black and his mother showed their strongest kinship. “I meant that a fully-trained wizard should go along to protect Harry _who actually cares about him._ ”  
  
Snape acted as if he would lift his wand, and Harry turned around.  
  
It was an effort for him, Draco could see; he desperately wanted to keep facing west, the way the potion was trying to make him do. But he managed it, and his eyes glowed like geodes as he glared at both Snape and Black.   
  
“Stop annoying each other,” he said. “Snape _does_ care about me, Sirius, even though he doesn’t want to admit it in front of other people. He’s said it privately, and that’s good enough for me. And Sirius is injured, but that doesn’t make him less competent, Snape. He has to stay here because he’s the only one who can command the wards on the house, not because he can’t go along.”  
  
 _A very nice way around the problem_ , Draco admitted to himself. He knew as well as Snape did that Black would only slow them up, but _admitting_ that was the way to get Black to demand to go along, so Harry assigned Black a special place in their plans instead.  
  
“I’m sick of staying here,” Black said, but the fire had gone out of his voice. “When can I leave?”  
  
“When we don’t need the house anymore,” Harry said, and snapped back around to face the west. His face had an expression of indescribable yearning on it—and something else. Draco narrowed his eyes as he studied him. That was the look Harry wore when he was planning something stupid, but Draco didn’t understand what he would be planning. For one thing, he hadn’t seen where Finnigan laired yet, so he couldn’t be planning to take advantage of the place. And for another, he knew how much their lives depended on each other.  
  
 _If anything, it’s Weasel who would do something stupid to show off his heroic attributes and get us all killed. Not Harry._  
  
“I am coming, as well.”  
  
Draco blinked as his mother swept into the kitchen, her head held high. Of everyone in the room, she only looked at him and Professor Snape, nodding a little when she caught Draco’s eye. Of course he had expected her to come, but she had spent so much time hidden in her room of late that he had thought perhaps she couldn’t stand Harry’s company for the duration of the journey.  
  
“Only if you promise to obey me,” Harry said, his voice echoing and eerie, “no matter what challenges we find at Seamus’s home.”  
  
Draco exchanged a concerned glance with Snape. He knew that the potion was Dark Arts for more than one reason. It affected the minds of those who took it in odd ways, sometimes causing them to reach through the veil of time as a Seer would. Perhaps Harry had seen that his mother would have a special reason to disobey him should she come along.  
  
“I will promise to obey unless my life or my son’s is in danger,” Narcissa said, her hands folded behind her back for a moment. Draco sighed, because the oath was wide-ranging—of course their lives would be in danger when they were walking towards a man possessed by the Dark Lord and a Horcrux—but Harry simply nodded.  
  
“Then we may leave,” he said, and stepped forwards, vibrating as if he would pass through the wall like the rat if he could.  
  
Draco let his hand briefly brush the buzzing Elder Wand in his pocket and then reached out to put his other hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry started and looked back at him. His face writhed and contorted, and then assumed the more human expression of a smile.  
  
“Thanks,” he whispered.  
  
Draco drew him near without speaking. Everyone was prepared to Apparate along the line that Harry was pursuing, and he was better at Apparating then Harry was, so he’d take him Side-Along. He could hear Granger bossily ordering her boyfriend to her side. Snape and his mother would travel separately, of course.  
  
In the moment before he cleared his mind in order to focus on the Apparition coordinates Harry had given them earlier, when he first swallowed the potion, Draco made a silent vow of his own. He would protect Harry no matter what came, no matter how much danger it put his life in, no matter how much Harry might want to be left alone to confront Finnigan. All the laws of his being, and all the laws of love, said that he could do no less.  
  
*  
  
It took three Apparition jumps, but they finally landed behind a tangled, wild thicket of briars, next to a house that made Severus shudder. It was crawling with Dark magic, to the point where it swiftly overwhelmed his senses and he could feel nothing except a dull, malevolent buzz. For once, he was grateful for a loss of sensitivity, and he drew his wand to cast stronger concealment spells on every member of their group.  
  
Harry was already looking around the briars. “It’s a small house,” he said, his voice still flat with the effect of the potion. “Two windows on this side. Built of wood. Strengthened with wards. I can feel them.” His voice sank oddly on the last words, and Severus stifled the urge to ask if he was well. _Surely he was not so great a fool as to think that it was unwarded_? “I think there’s a door on the south side.”  
  
“And Finnigan is there,” Draco breathed. Severus could hear a slight squeaking noise, thanks to the spells that he’d cast to sharpen his senses, and knew it was Draco rubbing his fingers along his wand, making ready to cast any number of unpleasant spells.  
  
“He is.” Harry’s voice was even flatter than before. Severus tried to lean sideways, so that he could see the boy’s face and understand a bit of what he was feeling, but he stood beyond Draco and Granger. Draco’s close proximity and Granger’s head of bushy hair ensured he couldn’t get a glimpse.  
  
“Of course we should stay together,” said Granger in a bossy voice that set Severus’s teeth on edge immediately.  
  
“It would seem the wisest course,” he intervened smoothly, before the girl could trigger the argument he saw building in Draco’s eyes. “But we do not yet know what the defenses or the interior of the building are like. Harry could Apparate through the wards, given the potion’s strength, but the rest of us could not, and that would be—rather dangerous.”  
  
The Granger girl nodded at him, and Severus was glad to see the somberness in her eyes. At least that indicated that she was also concerned about Harry going in alone.  
  
“Hullo,” said Weasley suddenly. “Who’s that?”  
  
Severus had to lean around the tangle of briars to see again, but from the single, sharp intake of breath behind him, from Narcissa, he thought he knew.  
  
A single figure stood in front of the house, his wand out as he gazed into the sky. Severus wondered for a moment if he had sent off an owl and intended to cast a spell to hurry it on its way. And then the man looked down and towards the briars—though through them, a sign that their concealment spells were holding—and his face removed all doubt.  
  
“ _Father_ ,” Draco hissed.  
  
“What’s he doing here?” Weasley demanded. His voice had started off as a bellow, but had sunk to a whisper by the time he finished the sentence, thanks to Granger pinching his arm. Lucius looked around anyway, a slight shadow of suspicion curling along his mouth.  
  
“He lost one Horcrux, as well as the blood sacrifice he intended to empower it, something that the Dark Lord must have discovered by now,” Narcissa said, her voice also flat. “He has probably been sent to secure this one, perhaps to negotiate with the spirit possessing the Finnigan boy.”  
  
Severus nodded to her. That sounded to him much the most reasonable explanation of Lucius’s presence, and he could understand the odd warning that Harry had given to Narcissa as well, now. She might be tempted to try and take vengeance on her husband, or perhaps even reveal herself to him, if she were less wise. Harry would want her to stay back so that he could handle Lucius as he saw fit.  
  
“I hope you can get some good information out of him,” said Harry. “It would be valuable to find out how much he knows about Voldemort’s affairs, and whether Voldemort is really planning to make an ally out of this piece of his soul, or just conquer it and take the Horcrux back.”  
  
Severus turned slowly in Harry’s direction. His ears were sensitive in their own right to nuances, as Merlin knew they had to be after a decade and a half in a Potions classroom, listening for the first signs of disaster from incompetent brewers. “You?” he asked. “But surely you will be joining us, Harry.”  
  
Harry gave him a small, sad smile. “No,” he said. “Keep safe, and get information out of Lucius if you can—but not by endangering yourselves.” For a moment, his gaze focused on Narcissa, no doubt trying to impress obedience on her particularly.  
  
Severus aimed his wand for _Impedimenta_. Draco made a grab for Harry. Granger started to raise her wand, her mouth and eyes wide.  
  
They were all too slow. In a moment, Harry had Apparated directly through the wards into the house, alone, and Lucius was moving, long and sleek as a greyhound, towards the noise of his leaving.

*

  
Harry staggered as he landed and caught himself with a hand on the wall. He winced as his knee slammed against something that felt wooden—a desk or a chair, probably—and tried his best to stay silent, even though he wanted to pant. Just because Snape had said he would be able to Apparate through the wards didn’t mean it was easy, any more than Snape claiming Harry _could_ brew meant he could get a perfect working potion.  
  
He crouched down, hoping the piece of furniture he’d hit would shield him from the gaze of anyone coming down the stairs, and darted his gaze around the room.  
  
A single dim window shone in the wall, about five feet above his head and ten feet away. Grime and cobwebs covered it. By its light, Harry could see that he was in a sort of storage room, with tiny paths between the various cabinets, trunks, beds, and sets of drawers. The air was still and stank of dust.  
  
At the moment, though, the room had a distinct lack of raging, Voldemort-possessed Seamus. That was enough for Harry to consider the location ideal.  
  
 _Maybe he didn’t hear me come in_ , he thought, but then shook his head. No, he had to assume the worst and that his enemy would have heard him bang on the desk, or at least felt the effort of his bursting through the wards. That effort had taken more out of Harry than he liked. His forehead ran with sweat, which seemed to score salty, painful lines along his scar. His arms trembled, and so did his legs, particularly as he continued crouching there.  
  
But he hadn’t had any choice. He knew that Draco or Snape, if they came with him, would try to kill Seamus instead of giving him a chance to throw Voldemort out of his head. Ron and Hermione might not, but Harry didn’t trust them to listen to him, either. Seamus could throw a curse and end their hesitation. The thought of taking Mrs. Malfoy with him was nonsensical.  
  
If he wanted to spare Seamus’s life—and of course he did—then he had to come by himself.  
  
The tug of the potion still worked on his muscles and eyes, telling him that Seamus was up the set of stairs Harry could see not far away, but it had eased. With its target so close, Harry thought, the potion must know that he didn’t need the guidance.  
  
He took a few more moments to sit there, composing himself and going over his fragile plan in his head. He knew that he couldn’t destroy the Horcrux by himself, though he knew the incantation for Fiendfyre and the Switching Charms. He wouldn’t be good at holding back the shard of Voldemort’s spirit in the same way that Snape was. Instead, he would confront Seamus, expel the possessing spirit, then snatch the Horcrux and leave.  
  
 _That means Seamus has to stay here on his own._   
  
Harry shook his head and sighed. He couldn’t do everything. He thought that Seamus ought to be fine once Voldemort stopped possessing him and the Horcrux, the main source of his corruption, was taken away. Because of course Draco and Snape and the others would have defeated Lucius in the meantime.  
  
 _Draco. Snape._   
  
Harry imagined their angry looks, the pain and fear that were probably coursing through them at the moment as they tried to come after him, and winced. Then he straightened his shoulders.  
  
He couldn’t let fear of their reactions control him, or stop him from doing what was right. Then he would be no better than Peter Pettigrew. He was no coward, and he was no traitor. He was just someone who had slightly different morals than they did, someone who knew what it was like to be a trapped victim, hoping desperately for rescue and yet thinking it would never come.  
  
Seamus had probably spent five years at least under Voldemort’s possession. That was half as long as Harry had spent trapped at the Dursleys’, but he didn’t care. The times were comparable, and the suffering was probably greater on Seamus’s part, and the thought of leaving him to die just because he’d once hurt Harry was _intolerable_.   
  
He set his foot on the first stair.   
  
*  
  
Lucius knew there was someone there.  
  
Severus had fought beside the man for years, and had been his comrade and his enemy and his companion in many other situations, and he knew him. The concealment spells weren’t enough to fool him. He moved with his chin slightly lifted, his eyes focused straight ahead, his nostrils flaring. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to determine much by scent, but it was more likely than if he didn’t sniff at all. Lucius was always saying how fascinating it was that humans paid too much attention to their sight.   
  
_As if the other senses count for nothing at all_ , said his voice in Severus’s memory, and he laughed and sipped a glass of wine.  
  
He would find them. Severus made plans for nothing else as he stepped slowly to the side of the tangle of briars, away from the frantic Draco, who was trying to bring down the wards that Harry had vanished behind. For a moment, worry for Harry made Severus’s brain and heart heavy, too, and his wand shook in his hand.  
  
Then he banished even that thought. There was nothing they could do for Harry right now. What he _could_ do was take the burden of killing Lucius on himself, so that Narcissa would not have to slaughter her husband, or Draco his father. Leaving Lucius’s demise up to the untrained Weasley and Granger was, of course, entirely out of the question.  
  
Memories surged and swirled through his head. The old scar on his right arm, got at Lucius’s instigation, ached. Severus felt his teeth pull back from his lips. Yes, in some ways this would be a positive pleasure, the repayment of an old debt. Training Draco himself and stealing his loyalty from Lucius was not enough.  
  
And then Narcissa stepped into the open and ruined it all.  
  
She had taken off the concealment spells, and she moved like a goddess, her white robes shining. They were the same ones she had worn when they went to Hogwarts, the robes that had rescued her and Severus as they fell down the pit Dumbledore had opened. Severus was not surprised. He was not surprised at anything she did as he folded her hands in front of her and gazed thoughtfully at her husband.  
  
Only dismayed.  
  
“Narcissa, stand _back_ ,” he said, and the command came out sharply enough that both Weasley and Granger jumped. Then they started moving cautiously behind Severus, their wands drawn. Both were pale, but Granger seemed more intent than Weasley, whom Severus expected to vomit or faint or flee at any moment.   
  
“I see no reason to,” said Narcissa. Her words were soft and passionless. Severus wondered if the display would fool Lucius. It certainly did not fool him, not with the way her fingers were twisting together in front of her until her knuckles almost matched her robes for color, or lack of it. “Lucius tried to kill me once already, disregarding all the sympathy and pity that tied us together, and the sanctity of the marriage vow. This is a matter of blood between us.”  
  
 _And it would be so easy to believe you, too_ , Severus thought grimly. _But I am not one to be fooled by pretty words._   
  
“I am glad that you recognize the blood.” Lucius’s voice was low and harsh, bereft of the political music that Severus had heard him employ so often. He was spinning his wand in his fingers, and he never took his eyes from Narcissa’s. “I wondered if you would. So lost to all sense of honor and tradition that you could steal my most prized possessions and take my son from me—”  
  
“I was the one who took myself away from you,” Draco snapped, stepping up to his mother’s side. “When I realized that I mattered less to you, and our traditions mattered less to you, and _everything_ mattered less to you, than serving that bloody Dark Lord.”  
  
Lucius’s eyes widened at the sight of Draco. Draco might think of that as greed if he wanted to. Severus knew that he was looking at Draco with hunger, and pride, and the consuming desire to know more of this impressive young man who had replaced the boyish son he remembered.  
  
He felt so in tune with Lucius, but not with Narcissa and Draco. He knew of no way to make them back off and realize this was his fight. They could convince themselves they hated Lucius all they liked, but they did not, and his necessary death would devastate them. Better for them if they did not cause it.  
  
And then Severus smiled slightly, because he had never played fair, and he did not understand why he was standing here worrying over how to get Narcissa and Draco out of the way. Perhaps Harry’s Gryffindor ideals were rubbing off on him. He could only hope that the boy had taken some Slytherin into him in return.   
  
He moved his head until Lucius’s eyes locked on his face, and then he whispered, “ _Legilimens_.”  
  
*  
  
Harry blinked as he came out at the top of the stairs. There had been no wards on the way up, no traps. He’d kept the words of curses ready on his tongue just in case, but there hadn’t been any.  
  
As if someone knew he was there. As if someone…wanted him to come in.  
  
 _Maybe part of Seamus survives, then_ , Harry thought in some hope, and looked around the corridor he’d reached. It was the first real sign he’d had that Voldemort didn’t control Seamus completely. _I mean, he couldn’t, could he? He would want to protect his Horcruxes at all costs._   
  
The corridor ran down past a railing that looked out over the dim room Harry had landed in, and back behind him into more dust and more emptiness. There were three doors in it, one behind him, one directly ahead, and one three paces away on the right. Harry cast a spell that sharpened his hearing and listened, but couldn’t detect any sound of movement. So he decided to start with the door on his right, purely because it was closest.  
  
He stepped into the room and stared around expectantly. This looked like a bedroom; thanks to the larger and brighter windows than before, he could see a single small bed like the one in his room at the Dursleys’, the pillows and the blankets also sagging under the weight of dust. There was another shut door over to the side, which might lead to a bathroom. The walls were plain wood—  
  
And then his scar exploded into pain as Seamus appeared in front of him.  
  
Seamus’s eyes were wide, and serpent-slitted, and the color of blood. His face was full of hopeless pain. He reached out a hand to Harry, which curled halfway there, as though someone were hammering an invisible stake through it. His mouth opened in a silent scream. “Please,” he whispered. “Harry, Harry, please.”  
  
Then his face wavered, and Harry could _see_ Voldemort coming into control of him. Suddenly those red eyes seemed completely natural, and Voldemort threw back Seamus’s head and laughed. “So foolish,” he whispered. “So foolish to come this far alone.”  
  
 _Seamus is still there. He’s still alive._   
  
And so Harry couldn’t use any spells that damaged the body, because it was _Seamus’s_ body, and he would still need to live in it after this was done. He hadn’t come unprepared, though, the way that Snape would probably say he had. He’d spent some time looking up curses that affected the spirit and the mind in the past few months, and if there were two minds and two spirits in Seamus’s body, then he ought to be able to affect the one without affecting the other.  
  
He aimed his wand and chanted the incantation for the Painful Memories Curse, being certain to substitute Voldemort’s name at the end of the spell, so it would fly true to its target. Voldemort stood there and watched him with amusement, making no attempt to defend himself. Harry bared his teeth. _Overconfident bastard. I’ll show you._  
  
But a moment later, it appeared there might have been a good reason for Voldemort’s confidence, as the body began to scream with Seamus’s voice.   
  
*  
  
Severus plunged into Lucius’s mind with no finesse, no goal, nothing but sheer power driving him. He swept through the front rank of memories and lit them on fire like a dragon flying low and breathing out over a stand of trees. He heard Lucius howl in agony, and then he tore back out of his mind and dropped to the ground to avoid the first curse.  
  
He rolled over, counted three, and then cast a Levitation Charm that lifted him above the second curse Lucius had aimed. By then, he was content that his gamble had worked. Lucius was in so much pain at the moment that he wouldn’t be able to think of anything other than getting the pain under control.  
  
And destroying the one who had done this to him.  
  
If Narcissa or Draco tried to intrude into the personal combat between Lucius and Severus, Lucius would simply ignore them. For the moment, he wasn’t their husband or father any more. He was simply a crazed, murderous beast.  
  
 _A clever crazed, murderous beast_ , Severus reminded himself, as the Constriction Curse nearly stopped up his throat and nose. He cast a spell that made Lucius feel as if his skin was on fire, every inch, and so gave Severus time to cast the countercharm. He whirled to his feet and entered the battle without any more hesitation.  
  
There remained only the kill, which he knew well how to do.  
  
*  
  
Seamus stumbled and cried out and clawed at his eyes. He was sobbing something thickly now, a name, a death he’d witnessed. Or maybe a death that Voldemort had made him cause, Harry thought numbly.  
  
He hadn’t learned the counter for the Painful Memories Curse as well as he’d learned some of the others. It wasn’t coming to mind. Or, at least, it wasn’t coming to mind before Seamus’s screams drove it out again.  
  
 _I’m torturing him, the way Snape tortured Bellatrix. I’m as bad as Voldemort himself._   
  
But then the Latin words were there, and Harry snapped them, and Seamus slumped to the floor, sniffling softly. He lay still, shaking. Harry backed a step away from him and cast a Locater Spell that Hermione had modified, enabling them to seek out the greatest concentration of Dark magic in a limited area. It ought to find the Horcrux, unless Voldemort had used his time with Seamus to create something even more horrifying.  
  
Yes. There was a dark purple throb from behind the closed door on the other side of the room. Harry began to edge in that direction, trying to make it look as if he were just getting in a better position to attack. Seamus, or Voldemort, couldn’t know that Harry knew about Horcruxes.  
  
“ _Thank you_.”  
  
Harry stopped at the soft, heartfelt words. He stared as Seamus climbed back to his feet, glancing over his shoulder as if he thought that someone would come hunting him at any moment. The red tint had faded from his eyes, and though his pupils were still shaped like a serpent’s, Harry could see them washing back to round as he watched.  
  
“What happened?” he whispered.  
  
“He’s gone,” Seamus said. “At least for the moment. Sometimes I can push him out—for an hour, a day.” He was swaying as he spoke, and his words slurred with exhaustion. He reached out, his hand flailing, and Harry automatically stuck out his arm so that Seamus wouldn’t tumble to the floor. His eyes did have traces of red at the rims, Harry saw now, but that was ordinary bloodshot tiredness. He had to close his own eyes in sheer relief.  
  
“The pain helped give me a focus,” Seamus said. “He was making me relive my Mum’s death—he killed her—and I got so angry that I was able to shove him out.” His hunted eyes shifted to the door on the far side of the room. “He’ll be in—the thing I have. You know about the thing, don’t you?” He stared at Harry anxiously.  
  
“Yes, and there’s no need to speak its name,” Harry said soothingly. He wrapped an arm around Seamus’s waist as he wobbled again, and helped him over to sit on the bed. “We’ll get it and you out of here. And I’m sure Professor Snape can help you force the spirit out of your head for good when we see him. What was Lucius Malfoy doing here?”  
  
“He came to negotiate with me over the—thing.” Seamus peered at Harry, but Harry nodded and smiled understandingly. He couldn’t say that he would have wanted to name a Horcrux, either, if he’d been possessed by the spirit out of one. “He said that his Lord needed it back.” Seamus folded his arms and shivered. “It was horrid, sitting in the back of my own head and listening as the—thing—argued with Malfoy.”  
  
“I’d think so,” Harry said, and squeezed his arm once more before standing up. “Listen, we’d better get out of here before Voldemort comes back to you or Lucius decides that it’d be better to run back into the house and steal the Horcrux.” Seamus flinched at the word. Harry peered at him. “Sorry. But I think we should go.”  
  
Seamus nodded. Harry turned towards the closed door. Yes, now that he was able to concentrate on something other than tormented screams or an impending battle, he knew the Horcrux was definitely here. It throbbed with a rippling ache of Dark magic, the way that the walls of Snape’s lab had after he finished brewing the potion Harry took.  
  
A stream of fire hit him in the back.  
  
*  
  
Draco had to do the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life: stand there, whilst Harry was in danger, and not go after him, whilst Professor Snape systematically destroyed Draco’s father—and he couldn’t interfere in _that_ , either.  
  
It was obvious from the beginning that there would be no contest. His father was a ferocious duelist. Draco had carried his share of bruises and bumps in the days when Lucius was tutoring him, and still carried a scar or two, from the times when Lucius had been more interested in practical demonstration than in practical restraint, and had let his magic get out of control.   
  
But Professor Snape was something else again: a killer, a warrior, who would do whatever he could to emerge from the battle alive, whether or not that involved obeying the dueling code.  
  
And he was in control of his actions, whilst Lucius was not.  
  
Draco wasn’t sure what Snape had done to turn his father into a drooling, wide-eyed maniac, who didn’t even seem conscious of the saliva spilling down his chin as he fought, his robes snapping behind him. But it had worked, and Lucius was ignoring obvious opportunities whilst Snape defended to pursue purely offensive strategies. The injuries he received seemed to heighten his anger instead of convincing him to back off.  
  
Snape whirled out of the way of one curse, and cast another as he came around. He sacrificed his robes to a Blood-Boiling Curse without hesitation. He stamped out a fire that Lucius managed to start on his robe hems and didn’t lose the beat of the battle as he did it. His eyes never strayed from Lucius.  
  
Draco shuddered and hoped that he was never obliged to be on the opposite side from Snape—if a shard of the Dark Lord’s soul managed to possess him, for example. He didn’t think he would survive.  
  
His mother’s hand tightened on his shoulder. Draco looked up and saw that her eyes were fixed on Lucius’s face, too, but the tight lines around her mouth conveyed easily enough that her intentions weren’t the same as Snape’s. She looked as if she were contemplating leaping into the middle of the fight between them.  
  
Draco touched her knuckles, running his fingers over them until she looked at him. Then he shook his head. He didn’t think any words would persuade her at the moment. He had to use his body language and hope it would be enough.  
  
 _You had to give him up when you fled the Manor_ , he thought at her, trying to make his thoughts as sharp as possible, so that Narcissa couldn’t help absorbing them through the skin. _That should have been the end of it. Mother, you have to remember that. He isn’t the man you married anymore. He isn’t the man you felt pity and sympathy for. He chose his Lord over us, and that has to be the end of it._   
  
Narcissa stood staring into his eyes, and behind them feet stamped and curses cracked and voices cried out in pain.  
  
Then Narcissa turned away from him, and her hand slid away from his shoulder to fall into a fist at her side.   
  
But she didn’t touch her wand.  
  
Draco turned back to the fight. He had the vague impression that _someone_ of the Malfoy blood should be looking at Lucius when he fell.  
  
He was just in time. Snape’s Crossbow Curse punched through Lucius’s chest and sent a complicated spout of organs and blood flying up. Draco saw his father’s face assume an expression of surprise mingled with rage. He would probably command death to wait on his pleasure, if he could.  
  
And then he fell to the ground and was still.  
  
It took Draco a long moment to connect the hollow feeling in his chest with a feeling of loss, partially because he had already turned to the house and begun to dismantle the wards again. _The living are more important than the dead._   
  
*  
  
Harry fell to the floor as the pain curled all around him, the fire flickering out to touch his ribs, his heart, his liver, and all the other major organs that Snape had taught him to identify as targets. He was in more pain than he had been for a long time. This was like all his weeks of starvation at the Dursleys’ two summers ago condensed into a single moment.  
  
But because he had borne that starvation and was determined to bear this, too, he rolled over and aimed his wand in one shaking hand.  
  
Seamus was coming towards him, moving in a leisurely way. His wand was clutched in his outstretched hand. His smile and his gaze never wavered, and red had washed over his eyes again. It was Voldemort’s voice that spoke.  
  
“So easy to fool,” he murmured, his tone almost a caress. “His spirit died long ago, little Potter. It put up a rebellion when I made him burn your possessions, and I crushed it like a fruit and swallowed it, keeping the pulp so that it would be easier to maintain the charade.”  
  
Harry’s fingers burned. His eyes burned. He tried to ignore Voldemort’s pronouncement and concentrate on the bit of Seamus that he was sure was in there somewhere, buried. Voldemort might brag about being able to crush a soul, but he couldn’t actually succeed.   
  
“Seamus, mate,” he said steadily. “I still want to rescue you.”  
  
Voldemort paused a few feet from him. He shook his head. Then his eyes turned brown again, and Seamus gasped and said, “Harry, I threw him off again for the moment, but he’ll be back! Come on, we have to get out of here!”  
  
The same sort of thing he’d said before. The same sort of thing he would always go on saying, knowing that he could fool Harry, until he killed him. Another curse like the last one would kill him, Harry knew.  
  
But if there was a part of Seamus still left buried…  
  
How could Harry abandon him?  
  
Seamus’s body took a step closer. His eyes were red again, and then brown. Red, and then brown. Voldemort let go a low chuckle of delight. “Which one of us is it, Potter?” he taunted. “How could you rescue him even if you knew?”  
  
His voice warped into Seamus’s again. “Harry, I’ve lived through all this despair, and all that kept me going is the thought of someone coming to rescue me. Of _you_ coming to rescue me. Please, please.” His words trailed off into sobs.  
  
Harry’s body shook with pain. The curse was coming back for a second surge, and his hand wavered and dropped.  
  
Seamus’s wand came up, his eyes still his own brown, but his mouth twisted in Voldemort’s killing sneer.   
  
Harry burned. His soul twisted.   
  
_No time to choose. No time. I could be killing Seamus.  
  
I have to choose between killing someone innocent and letting myself die, and Draco and Snape and Ron and Hermione and Sirius mourn.  
  
I choose…_  
  
And then he cast the Conflagration Curse that burned Seamus’s wand and body to ash, a whirling collection of burning molecules in the face of the fire, and a shape like a white bat flew out of the body and streaked through the shut door into the Horcrux.  
  
 _I choose to live._   
  
*  
  
When Snape and Draco, Ron and Hermione and Narcissa Malfoy, entered the house, they found Harry sitting next to a golden cup already caged with several protective spells and not far from a small pile of ash, his body shaking with constant fine tremors, his face marked with the murder that had torn his soul.


	30. Snake

  
Harry sat alone in the silence of their bedroom, his head bowed and his hands folded on his knees. He breathed regularly, but still with a rasping sound to it. He wondered if he had made himself sick, or if he had been crying without realizing it.  
  
But the wonder was distant. Everything had been distant since the moment he had killed Seamus.  
  
Someone pounded on the door, hard enough to make it shudder in its frame. “ _Harry_!” Draco yelled, sounding as though someone had set his best robes on fire. “Let me in _now_.” His voice descended at the end, which made it a greater threat. “If you don’t, you’ll spend the next six months regretting it.”  
  
 _At least he didn’t say “the rest of my life,”_ Harry thought, pushing his hand through his hair. He felt his scar and winced. _He has some originality in his threats. Or maybe he knows that I’m going to regret Seamus’s death for the rest of my life and don’t have room for another regret like that right now._  
  
But he couldn’t let Draco in right now, even though Draco had begun a litany of curses and spells that ought to remove the locking charm Harry had placed on the door. Maybe they even would, except that Sirius had taught him this locking charm specially, saying it was one that the Marauders had developed at Hogwarts and no one else knew. Every time someone managed to pierce a shield of its protection, it would shift and grow another.  
  
He couldn’t let Draco in right now because he needed to think and to settle his own reaction before anyone else could force one on him. He lay back, letting his muscles relax, as limp and loose as rags, and looked at the ceiling.  
  
The temptation to curl up around the wound and push everyone away, the way he had when Seamus burned his things, was present. It would be easier. It would numb the guilt, because he would be trying so hard not to feel anything. It would actually reassure Ron and Hermione, because they would have seen this reaction before and they would understand it. And Snape and Draco would recognize it, too.  
  
 _But they broke through that shell once before._   
  
And Harry wasn’t sure he could stand up to another determined assault like that now.  
  
He crossed his arms over his stomach and closed his eyes. All right. So the other choice was to admit the emotion, and live with the guilt, and distrust all the words that Draco would whisper to him about its not being his fault, because it _was_ his fault. Harry, and no one else, had cast the Conflagration Curse.  
  
And the worst of it—  
  
The worst of it was _not knowing._   
  
Maybe he’d done the right thing, and Voldemort had only told the truth when he bragged about crushing Seamus’s spirit. Maybe he hadn’t, and there was some bit of Seamus still trapped and whimpering behind those red eyes, even if it wasn’t anything like the personality that Voldemort had showed him. Maybe that bit of Seamus had existed, but been so traumatized that death had been a kindness and he could never have been healed or brought back to normal.  
  
The point, the problem, was that Harry didn’t _know_. Draco could say all he liked about guilt and how it wasn’t murder, the same thing he’d started saying the moment Harry explained, in a monotone, what happened. But he didn’t know if it was or not. He didn’t know if Harry had killed an innocent or not.   
  
Snape could be emotionlessly dry about the costs of war, but the hand he had put on Harry’s shoulder had still trembled, and he hadn’t taken his eyes away from the pool of ashes. Harry understood why. There was another of his students dead there, another future cut off, another thing the war had cost.  
  
Snape might be much happier that Harry was alive than he would have been if Harry had died, but he still lamented that the death had to happen at all.  
  
And to top it all off, Lucius Malfoy was dead, killed by Snape, who would be hurting, too, and his death would hurt Draco and Narcissa. (It was an effort to think of that cold woman by her first name, and Harry would never call her that to her face, of course, but he thought it and went on thinking it, because what was that difficulty compared to what she was suffering? And it might remind him to be a little more human towards her). So there was more than one grief in the house.  
  
That cut out any notion of curling around the wound and shoving other people away. Snape and Draco didn’t have the mental energy right now to punch through his walls, and they shouldn’t have to try.   
  
“Harry Potter, _so help me Merlin_ —”  
  
No. He would have to live with the guilt, though right now it felt like it would cut him apart to try, and he would have to help Snape and Draco with their pain. Maybe that would help him cope with his pain, too. He didn’t know, because he’d never been through a time when they were all hurting like this at once. Usually, he was either trying to keep his own injuries quiet or helping someone else.  
  
“ _Harry_.” This time, Draco sounded defeated, and Harry had stood up and taken three steps towards the door before he thought about it.  
  
 _It hurts us even more to be apart during this._   
  
Decision made, Harry opened the door. Draco, slumped against the wall in the corridor, looked up at him with dull eyes and a feverish cast to his skin. He didn’t even notice that the peeling paper had coated his robes with dust, which told Harry how serious the case was. And tears came into Draco’s eyes as Harry watched.  
  
He knelt down and wrapped his arms around Draco. Draco’s hands came up and clutched at his shoulders, fingers clamping into and scratching his skin. Harry winced, but considered how small that pain was compared to Draco’s agony, and said nothing, running his own hands up and down Draco’s spine.  
  
“He was your father,” Harry whispered. “Even if you despised him, and even if you know that he would have killed you and your mother if he got the chance, he was your father. It’s all right to mourn him.”  
  
“What you did was _not murder_ ,” Draco whispered back, sounding almost vicious in his desire to convince Harry. He stood up, but swayed as though he would have trouble supporting himself if he moved away. Luckily, he didn’t try. He leaned on Harry instead and panted against his neck. A moment later, that skin was damp, and Harry was glad Draco was finally crying. “Finnigan wasn’t alive anymore. Or it was a mercy killing, at the very least. You killed him in self-defense.”  
  
Harry didn’t think his rambles made much sense, but that was all right. No one needed them to make sense at the moment.  
  
Together, they staggered sideways and into the bedroom, and fell onto the bed. Harry pulled one arm free so that he could use his wand to shut the door. Then he curled himself up around Draco and used his hands and body warmth and sympathy to heal Draco as much as he could.  
  
And when his own tears came, he felt less self-conscious than he might have.  
  
*  
  
Draco woke slowly. He was cramped, and the skin of his face pulled when he blinked, dry with too many tears. His mouth felt and likely smelled horrible. If he could get his right hand free of the weight pinning it, then he would cast a Breath-Freshening Charm.  
  
But the weight pinning it didn’t shift obligingly like a pillow when Draco tried to move his hand, and he gave an incoherent grumble and opened his eyes.  
  
Harry lay beside him, his arms around Draco, Draco’s arm beneath him. He had one leg slung over Draco’s hip, in a position that probably made it look as if they’d fallen asleep intending to have sex. His mouth was open, and his breath no particularly sweet thing, either, to judge by the gusts blowing in Draco’s face. He snored. His eyes were crusted with sleep and red with crying, and six good Brush Charms wouldn’t have got his hair in order.   
  
Draco leaned in anyway, until his cheek rested against Harry’s. Harry went on breathing, slowly, peacefully. Draco hadn’t seen him sleep this well since the Dark Lord had sent Creevey’s heart, and he hoped that meant that Harry had felt some easing in his pain.  
  
 _I hope so_ , he thought, and shifted nearer, closing his eyes so that he could shut out the world and rest with Harry a little longer. _Otherwise, if it was just him comforting me, then he’s forgetting all about himself for the sake of someone else again, and I don’t like that. No lover of mine is going to die as a noble self-sacrifice._  
  
Maybe he breathed too hard as he thought about that. At any rate, Harry started, snuffled, and opened his eyes.  
  
He blinked blearily for so long that Draco wondered if he’d go back to sleep without realizing he’d woken up. He did that sometimes (and indignantly disbelieved Draco when Draco taunted him about it). Then he raised a hand to swipe at his eyes and mumble something about glasses, and Draco caught the hand and stuck Harry’s finger in his mouth before he thought.  
  
Harry had never moved so _fast_ before, and it had never been so unplanned. Draco had lots of fantasies, lots of thoughts to occupy his head when he’d failed to make progress with his plan to kill the Horcrux in Harry and when Granger was babbling on to him about the sorts of spiritual bonds she’d discovered, nothing of which applied to the bond between him and the Elder Wand. By the time he got Harry alone again, he was always anxious to put the fantasies into motion.  
  
But this time, Harry scrambled and moved over him and tugged off the clothes they’d fallen asleep in, and then he was locking Draco’s cock in his mouth and his thighs around Draco’s head, and Draco made a tentative grab at Harry’s erection with his mouth. Harry bucked harshly when he tried it and Draco gagged, but the marvelous feeling radiating from his groin gave him more than enough to think about.  
  
It was so _messy_. Harry’s mouth around him, teeth coated with sleep-fuzz, hands working Draco’s legs and balls almost harshly. The sweat streaking down Harry’s hips and dripping into Draco’s eyes. The way Harry almost crushed his face even when Draco gave up the idea of sucking him until this was done. And the way Draco panted and twisted and yanked at Harry’s hair, scattering threads of it all across the blankets.  
  
And the way he shot, of course, and the way Harry, unprepared, coughed and dripped spunk on the sheets.  
  
Draco scrambled down and around, banging his knee into Harry’s ear, and kissed him before Harry had swallowed completely. It was—an interesting taste. Not too different from what he’d swallowed of Harry’s, really.  
  
He fastened his own mouth in place before Harry could say something stupid, which he seemed ready to, given the awed way he was staring at Draco. And then Harry arched and writhed and grabbed a pillow hard enough to score several lines down the cloth and send a few feathers flying, and _that_ was all right, more than all right.  
  
Draco tried to give Harry the message he wanted to speak, the message every flick of Harry’s tongue had conveyed to him, the message sweat and spunk and even blood, if Harry scratched his head hard enough to draw that, gave.  
  
 _We’re alive._   
  
*  
  
Severus could think of no way to get the information he wanted without asking. But he hesitated to ask, because it would mean risking the trust he and Harry had built back up between them.  
  
 _On the other hand, you have invaded his mind multiple times, painfully, and he still trusts you. If you can do it without pain, and with his permission, why wouldn’t he give you what you ask for? You only have to convince him that you need it._  
  
And that would mean—speaking words that Severus did not think he could have spoken to Lily. Words of weakness.  
  
Harry sat across the kitchen table from him, eating breakfast, though the time was more appropriate to a late lunch, and utterly oblivious that Severus needed to ask him anything. His eyes were shuttered, and the line of his mouth burned. Severus was not foolish enough to think he had recovered from what he had done yesterday, but he recognized that determination, the same determination that had driven Harry through his healing from the wounds the Dark Lord had inflicted on him and kept him alive during his relatives’ abuse. He wouldn’t survive unscathed, but he would survive.  
  
Outwardly.  
  
And that might be enough for Granger and Weasley and even for Draco, but it wouldn’t be enough for Severus, who knew too much about the inner workings of the mind.  
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
Obviously he had waited too long and gazed too obviously, because Harry was watching him now, mouth slightly open in his concern. Severus gestured to the piece of half-chewed food hanging off his lip, and Harry closed his mouth and swallowed with a slightly guilty expression. But he said, “What’s the matter?” again.  
  
Severus had forgotten how disconcerting it could be to have that dogged determination turned on _him_.  
  
“I want—” Severus said, and then his pride literally choked him. He set his cup of tea down on the table with what he knew was unnecessary force. That alone would tell Harry something was wrong, as he had become so much more observant in the last few years, but at least it would not give him the specifics of the situation.  
  
Severus had begun to wonder if giving the specifics of the situation was impossible.  
  
Harry stood up and came around the table to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Severus blinked. Because he had grown so much used to being taller than his students, it inevitably took him by surprise when he realized how tall they grew in their seventh year. But Harry stood there now, and looked at him, long and earnestly, and Severus wondered, exactly, which of the many blows he had sustained had turned him from a child into a man.  
  
“Ask for it.” Harry’s voice was gentle but deep, as if he understood exactly what it cost Severus to humble himself this way.  
  
Severus laid a hand on Harry’s hand on his shoulder, and then looked at the far wall. He had grown more at ease with Harry, but that did not matter, not in this particular case. He still could not look him in the eye whilst he made his request. “I wish to look into your mind, to determine what wound your killing of Finnigan may have caused.”  
  
Harry considered it in silence. Twice Severus heard a slight snick as if he had opened his mouth, perhaps to say something stupid. Then he closed it again and stood thinking.  
  
Strangely, the longer he thought about, the more Severus’s impatient agony eased. At least Harry was taking this seriously. And that made it more likely that he understood not only how gentle Severus would try to be with Legilimency—instead of trusting him foolishly or deciding in a snap that he would be harsh—but what the question had cost Severus.   
  
“All right,” Harry said at last. “If you’ll lower your barriers and let me use Legilimency to see what Lucius’s death did to you. And tell me if I’m hurting you, of course,” he added quickly.  
  
It had been years since Severus had wished this intently that Lily was still alive. And this time, he did it because he wished she might see the man her son had become.  
  
*  
  
Snape’s face was dark as he looked at Harry, looked _into_ Harry. Once, he shook his head as though he disagreed with what he’d seen, but he didn’t say anything, so Harry couldn’t be sure. All _he_ knew was that the memories of Seamus’s death, mixed up with the memories of what he’d done and said and what the spirit possessing him had done and said, were cascading through his brain right now.  
  
Harry sat with his hands clenched, his breath noisy. But the guilt didn’t eat him quite so vigorously this morning.  
  
 _Who knew_ , he thought, the astonishment strong enough that he wondered if it was clouding Snape’s view of his other emotions, _that deciding to share the pain with someone else would actually reduce it that much?_  
  
Snape pulled free at last. Then he paced back and forth in front of the lab table a few times. Harry blinked when he noticed how close Snape’s robes came to upsetting several filled vials. He’d never seen Snape that careless.  
  
 _That’s how much he cares about you_ , his thoughts told him, and he didn’t even need to be embarrassed, since Snape wasn’t in his head anymore to hear the thought. He _did_ suppress a happy wriggle when Snape suddenly spun around and frowned at him.  
  
“You were murmuring that you had killed Finnigan when we found you,” he said. “That is certainly true, though I think of the Dark Lord’s as the only spirit we have _known_ to inhabit him.” He took a step nearer, staring the way he did when he suspected someone of cheating on an exam. “But I did not realize that you thought you had murdered him.”  
  
Harry took a deep breath. He had avoided having this confrontation with Draco so far because their emotions had worn them out last night, and then their pleasure had worn them out this morning. In fact, Harry thought Draco was still up in bed, asleep. He’d only got up himself because his stomach had pinched him so viciously.  
  
But he was about to have it with Snape, it appeared, and there was no point in hiding the truth from someone who’d just been in your head.  
  
“The point,” he said, “is that we don’t _know_. Maybe I killed only Voldemort, and that means that my guilt is misplaced. But maybe I killed Seamus, too.” He stood up, because this was one argument he didn’t want to have sitting down. “And if I did that, then I killed an innocent, and that was murder.”  
  
“He had spent six years trying to attack you,” Snape said, like it was inarguable. “He was in possession of a Horcrux. He was not _innocent_.” He spat out the word as if it had personally offended him by being in his mouth.  
  
“Was Draco guilty because he trusted Moody and offered me an accidental Portkey, then?” Harry countered.   
  
“That was Draco,” Snape said. “This was _Finnigan_.”  
  
Harry had to laugh. Sometimes, even though he’d changed his mind about Harry and a lot of other things, Snape’s prejudices were just too visible. “You might as well say that Draco’s a Slytherin and deserves forgiveness, whilst Seamus was a Gryffindor and didn’t.”  
  
“House affiliation has nothing to do with this,” Snape said unconvincingly. “And I am most disturbed to hear you speaking of that attempted murderer by his first name. Have you forgotten that he tried to kill Granger, as well, and would probably have killed your other _Gryffindor_ friends if they had not been quicker than he was?”  
  
 _You’d forgotten, until you needed it to convince me_ , Harry thought. _For you, his crimes against me were enough._  
  
He shook off that oddly warming thought and went on. “I haven’t forgotten that,” he said. Snape arched an eyebrow, but Harry plowed on. “But what _if_ he was a tool of Voldemort, and didn’t want to do any of that? I _had_ to think that. I _had_ to think of that as a possibility. And I’ll be tormented for the rest of my life by the possibility that I murdered him.”  
  
“You did not _murder_ him,” Snape began again.   
  
“But there’s the possibility that Voldemort had taken over completely, and it was self-defense.” Harry shrugged helplessly, holding his hands out. “So I don’t know either way, and even as I admit my guilt, I think that maybe I don’t need to worry about it. I want to keep the possibility of murder alive because that means I won’t become quite as callous and prone to hurling curses next time.”  
  
“You are not callous,” Snape said, laying an equal emphasis on each word.  
  
“But I could become that way,” Harry said, and lifted a hand when Snape started to reply. “You won’t argue me out of my guilt. What I want to know is if you saw it crippling me. I’ve tried to master it and go on in spite of it, but if it’s affecting my actions—”  
  
“It did not cripple your actions.” Snape rushed through the words as if he hated speaking them, even though that had been the reason he’d wanted to see into Harry’s head in the first place. _Obviously_ , Harry thought wryly, _he’s thought of something else that he can pin me down on_. “Why did you go into the house alone?”  
  
“Because I didn’t want to end up distrusting you more than ever,” Harry said, “which I would have if you had killed Seamus before I thought it was time. And I also didn’t want to end up hating myself, which I would have done if Seamus had been completely evil and hurt one of you before he died.”  
  
“It was insanely dangerous,” Snape hissed. “You must value your own life more.”  
  
“But can’t you see that that’s what I’m trying to do?” Harry asked simply. Snape turned on him a skeptical, piercing look of such power that Harry rushed on, trying to justify himself even though he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t. “I’m trying to live with the guilt. I’m trying to make plans, and live with my own deficiencies—which trusting Seamus too much and you not enough would be. I’m trying to take steps so that certain situations never arise.” He took a deep breath. “Sometimes, the steps are dangerous.”  
  
Snape didn’t snap at him immediately. He watched Harry with deeply hooded eyes instead. Harry looked back, wondering if the words sounded as adult to Snape as they did to him. He was _trying_ to be mature and grown-up. It was just very hard when everything he could do was dangerous, when they were in a bloody war.  
  
Oddly, Snape gave a single nod and then sat down in the chair he had earlier placed next to the lab table. “Give me a moment to lower my Occlumency shields,” he said.  
  
Harry took a little breath and hugged himself. _He’s not going to keep telling me I’m stupid. He’s not going to harp on this mistake as a mistake.  
  
He’ll probably take his vengeance in more subtle ways, but at least he isn’t harping on it right now, which would only increase my guilt._  
  
Inevitably, he was still a bit clumsy with the Legilimency, and Snape winced a time or two. But Harry saw enough to tell him that Snape accepted Lucius’s death as a casualty of war, and that he had long since ceased to think of the man as a friend. His greater purpose had been to prevent pain to Draco and Narcissa, and he had succeeded in doing that.  
  
 _Really_ , Harry thought, as he stepped out of Snape’s mind and nodded thankfully to him before turning for the door, _he’s a bloody great hypocrite to scold me for not minding the pain to myself as long as others don’t suffer. He does the exact same thing._   
  
“Where are you going?” Snape asked. Perhaps he had picked up something in Harry’s manner that told him all wasn’t well, or perhaps he hadn’t been as convinced by Harry’s little speech after all as Harry would have liked him to be.  
  
“To confront Draco about the same things I just confronted you about.” Harry shot him a wry smile over his shoulder. “Wish me luck?”  
  
Snape did not smile. “And after that?”  
  
“After that,” Harry said, “to work on a plan that will lure Voldemort to me and let me kill Nagini without dying myself. Assuming that Draco really has worked out a plan to kill the Horcrux I’m carrying.”  
  
*  
  
Draco opened his eyes with a gasp. His eyes were clotted with sleep, he felt sweaty and sticky, his stomach hurt from hunger—  
  
And he knew what he had been missing in the bond between the Elder Wand and himself.

*

  
“But, Malfoy,” Granger said, her voice so weary that Draco knew she was about to begin the insults at any moment, “what you’re saying doesn’t make any _sense_.”  
  
Draco winked at her and paced around the table in the library where the Elder Wand lay again. It kept turning so that one end was always pointed at him. Draco smiled at it in pity. Yes, it could do that, but it wouldn’t be very long before it couldn’t do anything else, ever again.  
  
“Look at it this way, Granger,” he said. “The Elder Wand has passed from hand to hand more than any other of the Deathly Hallows. I know that you’ll have read all the legends about them by now, so you tell me why that is.”  
  
Granger sighed in the way she did when she knew someone else was acting stupid enough to suffocate themselves, but didn’t want to say so. “Because it wants a new owner who can conquer its old one,” she said. “It wants to belong to the most powerful wizard in the world. And it slips from hand to hand when someone defeats its old owners. It may even arrange the duels so that it can belong to a conqueror. But,” she added, with a righteous sniff, “that part of the legend had less evidence than other parts did.”  
  
Draco eyed the Elder Wand sideways. It had stopped spinning and held still now, but the sensation of a single evil eye on him, perhaps located in the end of the Wand, was still there. Draco smiled thinly.  
  
“Oh, it’s certainly intelligent and strong enough to arrange something like that,” he said. “I think you can believe that part of the legend as much as you believe all the others.”  
  
“I don’t believe them,” Granger began, and then seemed to realize how ridiculous that made her sound with one of the Deathly Hallows lying right in front of her. She folded her arms and shook her head. “Where were you going with this, Malfoy? What does the Elder Wand passing from hand to hand have to do with the bond between you and it?”  
  
“The bond between us must always be flexible,” Draco said softly, “with a weak place in it. If the Wand bonded itself strongly to every owner, how would it manage to leave that owner when someone new and more alluring came along? We’ve been going about this the wrong way and looking in the wrong sorts of books because we assumed that the Wand was like other intelligent magical objects—like the Sword of Gryffindor, for example. The Sword is bonded to the whole House of Gryffindor and those who display its qualities, and it isn’t suddenly going to go off and attach itself to Slytherin House just because. But the Wand has no permanent allegiance. It could bond itself to you if you defeated me—and it would.” He looked at Granger and waited patiently for her to figure it out.  
  
Granger was at least not stupid, even if she was rather shortsighted and pigheaded. She gasped softly, her face brilliant. “So we don’t need to break a deep-rooted bond,” she whispered, “which was what we were trying to figure out how to do. We just need to find the weak place in the bond and exploit it.”  
  
The Elder Wand buzzed like a hiveful of angry bees and rose above the table, hovering there as it confronted Draco.  
  
Granger gasped again and fumbled for her own wand, but Draco knew _that_ would be next to no use. He moved sedately forwards to confront the Wand instead, raising an eyebrow. The buzzing grew louder.  
  
“You can’t stand the thought of someone rejecting you,” Draco said. He spoke softly, but then, he hardly needed to speak loudly for the Wand to hear him. It would hear him across oceans, as long as it had that bond attaching its essence and his soul. “They should always need you to win battles. They should always fall into their dependence. You should be the first thing they reach for in the mornings, before their lovers.”  
  
The buzzing soared to a pitch that Draco suspected would bring Professor Snape or his mother at any moment. He needed to stop it before then. He reached up and clenched the handle of the Wand, and endured the intense blast of magic that traveled through the elder wood and into him, making him stagger.   
  
The Wand offered him power, But Draco was no longer tempted by any power that did not also involve the sight of Harry’s head on the pillow, the green eyes opening sleepily to regard him, the lips parting in a gentle smile.  
  
“You can bond me to you,” he told the Wand. “You cannot make me love you.”  
  
The Wand buzzed again, and Draco’s head filled with constantly changing visions of conquest. Here he wore a crown and stood next to a giant stone chair, looking out over a crowd of bowing and kneeling people. Here he looked like the Dark Lord and stroked a snake larger and more poisonous than Nagini. Here he made Harry kneel to him, wash his feet, and swear that he would only look at Draco for the rest of his days.  
  
Draco tore himself away from that last vision with an effort. Yes, it _was_ tempting to think that he could make Harry his, without the least competition from anyone ever again, including his best friends. The Elder Wand had been in the business of tempting people for centuries, and it knew Draco well enough by now to realize what would compel his attention and what wouldn’t.   
  
But he would not yield to the vision. In the end, what he loved about Harry was the way he _defied_ everything and everybody—fate, the Dark Lord, the smothering concern of those who would keep him away from battles altogether, the conventions that would have kept him and Draco apart—and to make him kneel would extinguish that spark in him.  
  
“No,” he told the Wand, which was screaming shrilly by now. Granger was on the other side of the room, wand in her hand and eyes wide. Draco took note of her and then ignored her. This was his contest, and he intended to win it. “I don’t care how many times you’ve won. You’re not going to win with me. I don’t want power as much as I want love.”  
  
He wondered for one moment how Granger would take that soppy declaration, and was glad that his mother was not in the room—  
  
And in that moment, the Wand struck.  
  
A wedge drove into Draco’s soul, tearing downwards through his mind and heart. Draco flinched and tried to scream, but the feeling was so far beyond pain that it paralyzed him and he couldn’t make a sound. He stood there, swaying, instead, and the Wand dug deeper and deeper, seeking something in the dark depths of his subconscious that it could drag to the surface like a demon and use to rule and ride him.  
  
But Draco had faced his demons for years. He hadn’t simply walked into a love relationship with Harry, and he hadn’t simply walked away from his father, and he hadn’t simply walked into the war.  
  
He brought his own strength up in answer.  
  
The Wand wailed as Draco pushed it back out of his soul, a steady shove that cornered and cramped its power and shut up in a tiny portion, no more than that, of Draco’s being. It showed him visions again, but Draco no longer associated those visions with anything except the Wand’s duplicity. He responded with a blast of pure, natural force, and the Wand’s will bent before his. It was still bonded to him. It still served him in lieu of a better master, and that meant he could threaten it with the loss of even the prestige of his hand.  
  
And as he pushed, Draco suddenly located it. The weakness in the bond between them, the break that the Wand would exploit when it wanted to drop away from him and fly to the hand of his conqueror.  
  
Draco laughed aloud and pushed down on the break. The Wand screamed like a tortured thing. It writhed and wriggled in his grasp, and Draco could feel it fighting to change shape and confront him again.  
  
But it did not break free, even though Draco knew it could have. It would rather have a rebellious owner who hated it than no owner at all. That would probably shatter it, to be without someone who needed its power.  
  
Draco flowed around the weak place, sensing it in the same incomprehensible way that he sensed another person’s pain with Legilimency, and made sure he would know how to find it again. Then he smiled and ripped himself half out of the bond, leaving the Wand to wail behind him.  
  
When he opened his eyes, the Elder Wand lay limply on the table, and anyone but Draco would have thought it was an ordinary stick of wood, without any special properties at all; it had dimmed the sense of its magic. Draco winked at it, and received a single sullen buzz before he turned to look at Granger, who was sheltering behind a Shield Charm. Draco was grateful to note that at least she had _some_ sense. Weasley or Harry would probably have tried to intervene in the battle.  
  
“I understand the bond between us now,” he said quietly. “I understand how I am going to switch my spirit and Harry’s during the battle with the Dark Lord, so that the Horcrux in Harry will lose its grip on his soul and become easy to destroy, without requiring his death.”  
  
*  
  
Harry hesitated. No matter how long he spent pondering a plan to draw Voldemort to him, he kept thinking that his best bet would be simply to appear in public and start taunting him. That would bring him along, eager to defend his reputation and instill fear in anyone who might follow Harry’s example.  
  
But there were all sorts of problems with that plan, not least that it wasn’t guaranteed to let him get close to Nagini.  
  
Harry shut his eyes and leaned back in the chair with a little groan, rubbing at his forehead. Though his Occlumency was good enough by now that he never suffered a vision, his scar burned constantly, a low-grade irritation that let him know Voldemort was always engaged in planning and general evil.  
  
“Problems, pup?”  
  
Harry opened his eyes and smiled at Sirius. He stood in the door of the library, his twisted hand tucked out of sight behind him, his head curiously cocked. “Just trying to think of a way to kill Voldemort’s snake and get near him,” he said with a sigh.   
  
“Ah. Of course.” Sirius came a little closer, and now he was grinning like a devil, in the way that made Harry worry, because it usually meant that he was planning a prank on Snape. “But when you come up with that plan, and the way to execute it, then you have to take me with you. Do you know why?”  
  
Harry shook his head curiously, and Sirius produced his hand from behind his back like someone doing a conjuring trick. Harry gaped when he realized that the fingers were straight again, the bones uncramped.  
  
“Madam Pomfrey finally managed to heal it all the way. She had to work with the Dark magic and understand the spells Voldemort had used from the inside first.” Sirius admired his hand with a bright gaze, then dropped it and stared at Harry challengingly. “And now, you can’t claim that I’m too inept to help you anymore.”  
  
“You were never inept,” Harry muttered, jumping up and hugging him. “I just want you around to tease for a lot more time, that’s all.”  
  
Sirius stroked his back gently, then stepped back with a wistful little sigh. “It’s too bad that none of my pranks will work on He-Who-Has-No-Nose,” he said. “I’d like to show him what for, if only for James.” Sirius shook his head, and his eyes darkened. “And I’d like to do something to Peter, too.”  
  
Harry nodded, but he made a mental note to watch Sirius closely if he showed any signs of getting too interested in killing Pettigrew. Harry didn’t want someone at his side whose main goal wasn’t destroying the Horcruxes and killing Voldemort. He loved Sirius, but when he thought of the risks Sirius had taken in his third year, going after Pettigrew blindly to the exclusion of all else, he winced.  
  
Then he paused. Something he’d just thought was plaguing him, but he couldn’t tell what. Once they got on the battlefield, he could at least worry that Sirius would care more about protecting him than about killing Pettigrew.  
  
And then he caught his breath. “I’ll have to talk to Snape about that,” he muttered.  
  
“About what?” Sirius sounded only a little sulky as he took a book about defensive charms from the shelf and sat down in the chair next to Harry’s. “Some exploding potion that you can throw at the Dark Duffer’s minions?”  
  
Harry smiled and shook his head. “No, but that would be useful. I think I’ll mention it. Later,” he added, because Sirius was pouting now, and it had been too long since Harry got to spend any extensive time with him. He sat down and reached for the book he’d spent some time studying in the last few days, on curses that exploited preexisting physical weaknesses in an enemy’s body, such as heart conditions.  
  
Sirius beamed. Harry smiled back and turned the book’s pages to reach the point where he’d stopped before. _It really doesn’t take much to make people happy, if you only notice what they need and take a little time to appreciate them._  
  
Then he shifted and winced as his shoulder came into contact with the back of the chair. Draco had bitten him sharply enough earlier to leave an enormous bruise and cause him a little difficulty moving around. Harry would have healed it already, but Draco had hinted that the bruise had _better_ be there tonight, or else.  
  
 _And sometimes you need more than a little time and attention to soothe someone. Particularly when he doesn’t like you exposing yourself to danger, and you argue, and then he flings you on the bed and…does something about it._  
  
*  
  
Severus raised his eyebrows and gave the beautiful bird that had just flown into the lab his full attention. Of course they had warded the Black house tighter than ever after the Dark Lord had delivered Creevey’s heart to Harry, but if there were wards that could stop a phoenix, Severus didn’t know them.  
  
“What do you have for me?” he asked.  
  
Fawkes trilled at him and settled on the edge of the lab table, carefully distant from any equipment or vials. Severus nodded at him and strode over to undo the message attached to his leg. Fawkes had, on one previous occasion, got into his private lab at Hogwarts, and the way Severus had railed over the damage had taught the blasted bird a lesson that he had never managed to teach Dumbledore.  
  
The letter bore the seal of Hogwarts on it, indicating that Dumbledore had acted in his official capacity as Headmaster in sending it. Severus opened it quietly, and told himself that his fingers were _not_ shaking; he was merely reluctant to see what was in the envelope because he was wondering if Dumbledore had meant it for Harry instead.  
  
 _Dear Severus,  
  
There have been multiple attacks on the school now, and I recognize high-ranking Death Eaters in each charge. Worse, the children of pure-blood families inside Hogwarts have begun attacks on halfblood and Muggleborn children. Harry’s friend Dean Thomas was badly wounded the other day.   
  
Voldemort has been in communication with me several times, if sending up the Dark Mark over the body of another victim and calling in his demands can be called communication. He says each time that he will stop if we release Harry Potter to him. He seems to believe that we are hiding him within the school. I do not know what has given him this idea. I swear that it was not a plan the Order promoted.   
  
I have so far refused to comply with the demands, and neither would I under any circumstances._   
  
Severus breathed a little more easily. It seemed that there was still some of his mentor left in the frightened old man Dumbledore had become.  
  
 _But some students do believe the tale, and are searching the school for Harry. Worse, some of the school’s governors and parents believe it, and are contacting me with frightened, shrill owls saying that Harry must be turned over for the safety of all their children. I wish to maintain the pretense for a time so that I may give aid to Harry and prevent Voldemort from searching out his real location, but I must choose soon between helping Harry in this way and telling the truth so that Hogwarts will not tear itself apart at the seams.  
  
Tell Harry it would be best if he defeated Voldemort soon.  
  
Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts._   
  
Severus snorted gently as he lowered the letter. He understood now why Dumbledore had not contacted Harry directly, as might have seemed logical. The boy would view it—and so would Severus, and so would Draco—at an attempt to use Harry’s guilt complex to manipulate him. This way, Dumbledore let them know of the danger whilst leaving it up to Severus to decide what to say to Harry.  
  
It was a cannier move than he had made in some time, and Severus hoped that by destroying the Resurrection Stone, some of the obsession it had exerted on Dumbledore might be lessened.  
  
And that left him only the dilemma of deciding how to break the news. Harry would never forgive him if he hid this information, of course, but neither did Severus want him to take the news of the attacks on the school to heart and carry it around as one more unwarranted burden, clouding his mind with raw emotion.  
  
As he hesitated, someone knocked on the lab door. “Professor Snape?” Harry’s voice called a moment later. “Can I come in?”  
  
 _Fate is determined to make me face the decision early, it seems._ Severus set the letter aside and stared at Fawkes, who gave a single yank at his tail and then settled in for a long preening session. Severus rolled his eyes. “Enter,” he said.  
  
Harry stumbled to a stop at the sight of the phoenix, his eyes wide. “What’s Fawkes doing here?”  
  
“He brought a letter from Professor Dumbledore,” Severus said. “Containing news of attacks on the school. Dumbledore is trying to hold the Death Eaters back, and to keep the pure-bloods from inflicting damage on halfbloods and Muggleborns. He does not know if he can.” He hesitated, but Harry’s face was open and yearning, and Severus had to finish his speech. “For some reason, the Dark Lord thinks you are hiding in the school.” He held the letter slightly behind his back as he finished. He saw no need to let Harry read it, unless he insisted.   
  
Harry nodded, his eyes brilliant with determination. “Then it’s just as well I’ve come up with a plan to lure Voldemort that I think will work,” he said. “I need to know how binding life-debts are.”  
  
Severus blinked at the odd question. “It varies,” he said. “The one I owed your father was extremely binding, as he saved my life when he need not have and as the result of a conscious decision, not a split-second changing of his mind. But the accidental saving of a life is less binding, though the surviving wizard may still owe his magic to the other one.” He broke off with a frown when he saw that Harry had a faint half-smile on his face, and did not seem to be listening fully. “What is so amusing?”  
  
“You sound like you’re lecturing about Potions no matter what the subject is,” Harry said, and then moved on before Severus could react to that potentially insolent comment. If it _was_ insolent. He could not decide. “What about the life-debt that Pettigrew incurred when you saved his life?”  
  
Severus blinked again, thrown, and then tried to rearrange his face in a sterner expression. It was not well that Harry should know how frequently he kept surprising him. Severus was supposed to be his guiding figure, the mentor to him that Dumbledore had once been to Severus. “I never saved Pettigrew’s life.”  
  
“Yes, you did,” Harry said quietly. “When Sirius pursued him in the school. You forced Sirius to change back to human form in the Gryffindor boys’ bedroom, remember? Sirius told me later. He was all indignant about it. The spell forced Pettigrew to change, too, because you hadn’t known he was a rat Animagus. But then you captured Sirius and prevented him from chasing Pettigrew when he changed into a rat again and ran off. He owes you his life, because I _know_ Sirius would have killed him if he caught him.”  
  
Severus leaned slowly against the lab table, causing Fawkes to wag a claw at him and shrill warningly; he had come close to upsetting several vials. Severus glared. “Stupid bird,” he said, but without spite. Fawkes began preening again, smugness in every movement.  
  
“Could it work?” Harry insisted, taking a step closer, and then hesitated. “I reckon it would depend how much Pettigrew knows about life-debts.”  
  
“He came from a family who did not have the time or money to spend on advanced training,” Severus said absently, calling up memories from years ago. He had never thought he would be glad to remember so much of the Marauders’ life histories. “I think it unlikely that they would have mentioned all the subtleties of the theory to him. Not even Lucius would have explained it to Draco. It is not a subject widely-known, partially because it is intricate and partially because most wizards don’t foresee having a need for that branch of magic.”  
  
Harry nodded. “So we could convince Pettigrew?”  
  
“Perhaps,” Severus said. “I would not want us to rely on this as our only plan, particularly in light of how venomous Nagini is.”  
  
Harry smiled. “Draco isn’t ready with the Switching Charms that he thinks he’ll need, either, and Hermione wants to modify the Fiendfyre incantation—God knows why, I can’t follow her on the theory. I thought we’d wait a short time, so you can work on antivenin as well as contact Pettigrew.”  
  
And yes, Severus knew how to do that. It seemed that his skill as a spy and liar were finally going to come into good use for the first time since they had stolen the tiara Horcrux from Hogwarts. He smiled back at Harry, who departed from the lab whistling. Severus would have promised something much more difficult for a sight of that smile.  
  
It was only when he began to make notes on what he knew of Nagini’s venom that he realized Fawkes had disappeared.  
  
*  
  
Harry hesitated. The moment he had left Snape’s lab, he’d heard a shuffle and rustle down the corridor, as if someone was there. But then he saw the edge of a gown-like robe, and he wondered if he shouldn’t keep walking instead of stopping.  
  
He should have, but he couldn’t. He turned and looked into the small alcove the rustling had come from.  
  
Narcissa Malfoy stood there and watched him with no expression on her face at all. That face was whiter than usual, though Harry didn’t think her pale robes helped matters. She had her hands folded around something small, with a frame on it. Harry couldn’t see the face, but he thought it was probably a portrait of Lucius.  
  
 _She’s mourning, too. And maybe she mourns more because Draco flung himself into research instead of spending time grieving._   
  
And maybe he should leave her there, yes. She’d never been friendly to him, and she would probably hate him for acknowledging that he saw her suffering.  
  
But, on the other hand, she was _suffering_. And it really didn’t matter what kind of person she was. It mattered what kind of person Harry was.  
  
So he walked up, gave her a short bow—he knew trying to touch her would be out of the question—and said in the most calm and mannered voice he possessed, “I’m sorry for your loss.”  
  
Narcissa stared at him. Harry turned around again and walked down the corridor.  
  
A moment later, there was a brush of warmth against his neck from shining tail feathers, and Fawkes cooed in his ear. Harry caught his breath as the phoenix briefly settled on his shoulder and sang a few notes. The music sent a surge of health and strength through him. He smiled before he knew what he was doing.  
  
Then Fawkes nestled his beak below Harry’s ear, shook one leg so that something fell into his palm, and took flight again, swooping in a flash of light up the corridor.  
  
Harry looked down at the thing in his hand, blinking. It was a clear glass vial, and though he wasn’t sure, he was relatively sure that the slimy green liquid within it would turn out to be basilisk venom.  
  
 _All you need_ , he thought in wonder, _is a little time and attention to figure out what most people will need, and prevent suffering._

*

  
“Oh, _you’re_ a fine one to talk about dangerous decisions.” Draco’s eyes were on fire, and he moved closer with his teeth bared, as if he were about to repeat the bite he’d given Harry the other day. “It’s all very fine for _you_ to enter a house to fight, _alone_ , against someone possessed by the Dark Lord, but Merlin forbid I try something that’s guaranteed to save your life! You—”  
  
“It’s not guaranteed to save my life!” Harry yelled back, and balled his hands into fists. _God, sometimes I feel like I’m back in second year and all I want to do is punch him in his smug face_. “You don’t know anything about it! You admitted that you didn’t understand the magical theory yet, and that _Hermione_ couldn’t follow it! You can’t expect some abstract technical discussion to soothe—”  
  
“Worries that you should never have in the first place?” Draco surveyed him with a curled lip. “Yes, I _can_ , when I know what I’m doing.” He lowered his voice and edged closer. They were in their bedroom, and Harry stood with his back to the door. He felt like stepping away and actually leaning his back against it when he saw the depth of the crazed gleam in Draco’s eyes.  
  
“All I’m asking is for you to trust me,” Draco said, his voice fragile. “Can you do that? Just trust me.”  
  
Harry took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes for a moment. He knew that he really had no right to scold Draco about putting his life in danger. That was the same thing Narcissa had done, and it only proved that she didn’t understand the desires that drove Draco. But what Draco described, from what Harry could understand of it, sounded so extreme…  
  
“Explain it to me again,” he said, and managed to keep his voice steady. “I can trust you more if I understand more about it.”  
  
Draco gave him a soft, adoring smile that caused Harry to blink. He hadn’t known it was so easy to defuse Draco’s anger.   
  
“That’s fair,” Draco said. “I wanted you to explain before you went after Finnigan, after all.” His eyes sparked for a moment, but luckily he wrestled his indignation back under control and returned to the subject .Harry didn’t feel like having an argument they’d already settled. “The Horcrux is attached to your soul. That’s only sensible, because the shards of the Dark Lord’s soul look for a spirit to bond with, the way the cup did with Finnigan and the way that the diary’s spirit did with Weasley.”  
  
Harry nodded. That was the part he thought he already understood, but at this point, he decided that hurrying Draco through any part of the explanation was a bad idea. He reached out and took Draco’s hand. Draco squeezed his fingers absently, his eyes fixed on some distant abstract realm that only he understood.  
  
“Supposedly,” Draco whispered, “the only way to free your soul from the grasp of that piece of the Dark Lord’s is for you to die. But I came up with another way. Switching Charms, Harry! The answer was there all along. Substitute someone else’s soul for your soul, and of course the piece of the Dark Lord’s would become detached.”  
  
“But the only way that you could substitute your soul, or someone else’s, for my soul is by dying,” Harry said. He wondered that Draco hadn’t identified the snag in the plan before he had. “I’m _not_ going to allow you to die for me.”  
  
Draco shook his head earnestly and brought his free hand up to caress the side of Harry’s face. “No. Ordinarily, that might be true. But I’m bonded to the Elder Wand, and no one else has come along yet who could take it away from me. That means the Wand will do all it can to keep me alive.”  
  
Harry half-looked away. He couldn’t bear to think of the brightness in Draco’s eyes dimmed because they had followed this mad plan and then it had turned out not to work. “I don’t know what that means.”  
  
“It means,” Draco whispered, “that we’ll _switch_ our souls, not just transfer the Horcrux from one to the other. It’ll be like a carousel, Harry. We’ll transfer your soul to my body, as my soul goes into yours. The shard of the Dark Lord’s spirit will try to latch onto me, but the Elder Wand will rise up to prevent anything else from establishing a bond with me. And then we’ll switch again, and your soul will be back with the Horcrux. But its hold will be weakened, and before it can grab you, we’ll switch again. And then the Elder Wand can fight it again. Go on long enough like that, and the Horcrux should break apart.”  
  
Harry frowned and glanced back at him. “But if it’s attached to my _soul_ , then it should come with me, no matter where I go.”  
  
Draco shook his head, his smile superior. “That’s what I thought at first. But I’ve looked at the incantations in more detail. And then there’s what happened with Weasley. If it was a process of switching souls, then why did her _body_ need to die? No, if he could have, that shade of Tom Riddle would have possessed her, or simply become more real and left her soulless. Like the Dementor’s Kiss. It would be less conspicuous. And the same thing happened with the other Horcruxes. When their ‘bodies’ are destroyed, they’re in danger, and seek out another host to possess.”  
  
“Dumbledore had another explanation for why Tom Riddle needed to drain Ginny to death,” Harry muttered. “Something about life energy—”  
  
Draco sniffed. “Dumbledore hasn’t made the study of Switching Charms that I did.” He looked so absurdly proud of himself that Harry had to stifle the urge to hug him. He didn’t think that would suit Draco’s vanity at the moment. “But let’s say we’re wrong, and the Horcrux does try to cling to your soul. That’s why Granger’s modifying the Fiendfyre incantation. In this case, we can’t use it to destroy the container, because the ‘container’ is your body, and I have plans for that, thanks.” He swept his gaze possessively down Harry’s body, lingering on his crotch until Harry had the inevitable reaction, and then glanced away, smirking. “We need something that will burn a soul, and weaken the connection between the Dark Lord’s soul and yours if the Switching Charm doesn’t work.”  
  
Harry blinked slowly. “And you really think this will work?”  
  
Draco leaned forwards and squeezed his wrists, hard enough that Harry winced. “I would never put you in danger if I thought it wouldn’t,” he said fiercely.  
  
And with that, Harry had to be content. He nodded a little. “When do you intend to practice this?” he asked.  
  
Draco kissed his cheek. “The moment we think we’ve perfected the incantations. And we’re not far from that point right now.”  
  
Harry took a deep breath, thinking of the insanely complicated measures this would demand, but nodded again. He would rather that his life be in the hands of his lover and his best friend than anyone else he could think of.  
  
*  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes as he watched the cup crumbling in the basilisk venom Dumbledore had sent and the struggling, screaming spirit slowly fade from sight. Then he glanced sideways at Granger.  
  
“I don’t know,” she said, pushing sweaty hair out of her eyes. “I don’t think we saw everything we needed to. I wish we could make another trial.” She grimaced at the swirling basin of venom and shook her head.  
  
“Of course you’re going to make other trials, before you put my godson through anything like _that_.”  
  
Draco stifled a sigh and glanced over his shoulder. One of the bad parts of finally coming up with an explanation of what he and Granger planned to do that Harry could understand was that Harry had told other people. Draco knew that Professor Snape would accept it after some intense questioning, and Granger could pacify Weasley’s outbursts. But Sirius Black was currently presenting a problem.  
  
 _He acts like any danger Harry chooses to place himself in is right and good, but that we don’t have the right to try and find something that’ll work_ , Draco thought in irritation, and dropped the Impervious Charm he’d been using on his face to shield himself from any stray splashes of basilisk venom. Black complained that he couldn’t see Draco’s eyes when he used the Charm, and that made him more likely to distrust Draco than he already was. “We don’t have another Horcrux,” he said. “Except Nagini, and I don’t think we’ll get close enough to destroy her without also confronting the Dark Lord.”  
  
“But Snivellus is contacting Wormtail, isn’t he?” Black’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Why can’t he just bring the snake along?”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. Luckily, Granger stepped up then and took over her share of Black-soothing. “The life-debt that Professor Snape is using to persuade Pettigrew is fairly weak,” she said. “We don’t think it would be enough to make him betray his master and bring Nagini to us, even if he might lose his magic. He’s more afraid of V-Voldemort than he is of us.” Draco had to grudgingly admire her strength to say the name, even if it was difficult for her.  
  
“I still want another trial,” Black said, and folded his arms, as if his mere demand was enough to produce an eighth Horcrux from thin air.  
  
Granger and Draco exchanged a glance of the kind that was becoming familiar to Draco, and which was almost enough to make him call her Hermione. It was their united intelligence against a world of morons, and specifically, one stubborn imbecile.  
  
“We’ll do what we can,” Draco said. “But no one has ever done this before because the situation has never occurred before. So, for the most part, we’re having to rely on theory and reasonable speculation.”  
  
Black snapped his teeth shut like the dog he could turn into. “This is Harry’s _life_ we’re talking about, Malfoy.”  
  
Draco opened his mouth, but Granger stepped forwards, her voice shrill. “And do you imagine Harry’s life is any less precious to Draco than to you? He’s in _love_ with him, Sirius. He wouldn’t endanger him on purpose.”  
  
Black blinked, apparently so taken off-guard by a Gryffindor defending a Slytherin that he had nothing to say. Draco gaped at Granger himself, and then shut his mouth and tried to look as if he’d expected this. Luckily, Black seemed to be occupied with forcing his slow brain to work, and hadn’t noticed Draco’s distraction.  
  
“Yes, yes, all right,” he muttered. “But I still want another trial. There has to be something you can substitute for a Horcrux.”  
  
“We’ll try,” said Granger, more diplomatic than Draco could have been at the moment, and pushed him out of the room. Then she turned and looked thoughtfully at the basin of venom.  
  
“No,” Draco said, reading her expression without effort at this point, they’d spent so many hours working together. “We’re not going to scrap our plans for the Fiendfyre and try basilisk venom. We’ve developed the Fiendfyre almost perfectly. It should work.”  
  
Granger sighed. “But we don’t know that it will,” she said.  
  
Draco sneered at her. “Where’s the Gryffindor courage I’ve heard so much about? You ought to be the one clamoring to use these spells on Harry right now, so that he doesn’t have to spend any more time with that Horcrux inside him, poisoning his spirit.”  
  
“I know,” Granger said. She wrapped her arms around herself. “But I was almost Sorted into Ravenclaw, you know. I keep thinking of all the things that can go wrong, and then I wonder if we’re being presumptuous to think that we can do this, where experienced magical theorists would balk.”  
  
“Experienced magical theorists don’t have the burden of saving the world on their shoulders, either,” Draco said shortly, casting a dome spell on the basin of venom so that he could safely pick it up. “We’re doing the best we can with limited time and abilities.”  
  
Granger made an unhappy noise. Draco ignored her, keeping his eyes on the drifting ashes of the cup as he revised his calculations and his changes to the Switching Charms in his head yet again.  
  
 _It will work. It has to work._   
  
*  
  
“S-Snape?”  
  
Severus kept a cold expression on his face without effort as he turned around. As much as he would have liked Black to be guilty, knowing that Pettigrew had been the true traitor to the Potters, and the reason Harry had grown up as an orphan and his beloved Lily had died was enough to turn all his hatred against the man.   
  
He snapped his robes over his shoulder in his most intimidating manner as he strode forwards. Pettigrew cowered in the door of Spinner’s End. Severus sneered at him, and then waited a moment as Pettigrew carefully checked the wards and spells on the house. He had had to invite the traitor to meet him here, because it needed to be a place that would make it look as if his act was genuine. And it was out of the question to hint at the existence or location of Grimmauld Place, especially if Dumbledore was forced in the next few days to announce that Harry was not hiding at Hogwarts.  
  
“Pettigrew,” he said, and the little man winced at the lash of contempt in his voice.  
  
“I just—I came when you summoned me,” he whinged, inching closer. “And because you said that I owed you a life-debt. That’s not true. Y-you never saved my life. And I won’t lose my magic if I defy you.”  
  
Severus laughed, and enjoyed the way Pettigrew covered his ears as if he could block the sound out. “Who are you trying to convince? Me? Or yourself?”  
  
Pettigrew straightened and shook his head. “I understand about life-debts,” he blustered ridiculously, wagging a finger in Snape’s face, “because you owed James one. I know that it only happens when you directly save someone’s life, and—”  
  
Severus laughed again, and then whispered, as Pettigrew shut up, “Are you sure of that? Are you absolutely sure? Or did you never hear of the difference between direct and indirect life-debts?”  
  
The little man froze with indecision. Severus prowled a step forwards, lowering his voice until it would sound like a vibration in the bones of his terrified victim. He had deliberately looked up everything he could on life-debts, so that any book Pettigrew read would confirm the truth of what he was saying now. What Pettigrew would probably not think to question was whether he owed Severus a debt at all. “One’s actions may save another’s life, even if that was not the rescuer’s primary intent. If the rescuer takes no notice or has no intention of claiming the debt, it will be allowed to lapse. But _I_ saved your life, Pettigrew. I stopped Black from killing you when he had you cornered in a game of dog and rat in the Gryffindor boys’ room. I am sure you remember the moment when my spell changed _both_ of you back to human form? But I retained possession of Black, and allowed you to escape. Do you think you would have survived I had not?”  
  
Pettigrew licked his lips. “But you didn’t _mean_ to—”  
  
“And so it is an indirect, rather than a direct, life-debt,” Severus said, and gave Pettigrew his best attempt at a winsome smile, from which he shrank more than Severus thought he would have before an outright sneer. “But I am claiming it now. Resist it if you think you can. Risk losing your magic.” He paused and assumed an expression of deep thought. “Of course, without the ability to use a wand, you would be rather a burden to your dear Lord and master, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Pettigrew’s teeth chattered in an agony of indecision. Then he shook his head. “Claim it, then,” he said. “I’m calling your bluff, Snape.” He turned away as if he would sidle out the door.  
  
“Fool,” Severus whispered. “I have already lured you away from your master’s side. If you return to him without a convincing story, what do you think will happen to you?”  
  
Pettigrew let out a terrified shriek, one that made him resemble a rat even in human form, and wrapped one arm around his head as if he could shelter himself from the Dark Lord’s wrath. Then he whimpered. The whimpering climbed constantly in volume and pitch, whilst Severus folded his arms and waited him out with patience.  
  
Then Pettigrew turned around, his hands clasping and opening in nervous clutches in front of him. “Severus,” he said, as if they were old friends. Severus bared his teeth, and Pettigrew slid back, crouching down so that his belly touched the ground. “Snape. _Please_. You don’t know what’ll happen to me if you try to make me betray him.” He scrabbled at his left arm, where Severus knew the Dark Mark was hidden.  
  
Severus pulled back his own sleeve to reveal his snake-and-skull. Of course Pettigrew knew he was Marked, too, but it couldn’t hurt to remind him. “I do know,” he said. “I have seen the punishments. And I can imagine what the Dark Lord will do to a follower who is not only disloyal but has no magic.”  
  
Pettigrew shut his eyes and shivered. “What do you want me to do?” he whispered.  
  
Severus knew not to push this newfound acquiescence too far. Pettigrew was primarily a coward. If he thought that the threat was close to not being fulfilled at any time, or if he thought that the Dark Lord was more dangerous than Severus, he would turn back the other way and confess everything to the Dark Lord.  
  
“I wish you to help me in my own betrayal,” said Severus, and smiled when Pettigrew gasped and looked up at him. “Yes. I have found that my best interests are not served by remaining with Potter. I wish to win clear of this war, and the boy is only interested in dying heroically.” It was no effort to curl his lip and call up the scornful tone in his voice, either; he did it by remembering James Potter. “I do not intend to be part of the entourage marching behind him, mindlessly chanting his name as they catapult themselves to an unnecessary martyrdom.”  
  
Perhaps it should have worried him, how easily he came up with that story. Surely it would have made Black frantic with fear. But Severus simply accepted the words that spilled out of his mouth, the words he had designed in his mind last night. He had not been a spy for nothing.  
  
Pettigrew nodded slowly. “All right. But what can I do to help that?” A whine had crept back into his voice.  
  
“I have not yet decided whether I wish to remain neutral, or to rejoin the Dark Lord’s ranks,” Severus said coolly. “Largely because I am not sure which would offer the better chance of survival. I wish you to find out how much the Dark Lord fears the boy. Will he attack him directly? Or will he remain at a distance and let Potter wear himself out by foolishly assuming he can destroy an immortal enemy? If the latter, then perhaps I will rejoin him. If the former, there is a small chance that I might die in the battle, which I wish to avoid.”  
  
Pettigrew gnawed his lip nervously. “I don’t know, Snape. He doesn’t tell me an awful lot anymore. He hasn’t confessed his plans to anyone since Lucius and Bellatrix disappeared, I don’t think.”  
  
Severus fought back a superior smirk. “It may help if you can find out what he means to do with Nagini,” he said.   
  
“Nagini?”  
  
“His snake,” Severus said, keeping his words as slow and simple as he could. It was a wonder to him how Pettigrew had managed to become a Death Eater and survive amongst the likes of Lucius and Bellatrix. “If he means to keep her by his side, and does not seem worried for her safety, then perhaps he will not engage in battle after all.” He paused, pretending to think. “On the other hand, he has always been overconfident of his success where Potter is concerned,” he murmured. “Perhaps it would be better if you could learn more details about Nagini herself. She is an unnaturally intelligent snake. Does _she_ seem to think that there is any danger, or does she complacently coil herself around him?”  
  
 _There_. He did not dare command Pettigrew to bring him Nagini yet. That was for later. It was best to establish a spy upon her movements, and slowly lead Pettigrew further and further into betrayal of his Lord.  
  
“And that will fulfill my life-debt?” Pettigrew’s nose was twitching as if he had whiskers. Severus could see why his Animagus form was a rat.  
  
“Not completely,” Severus said. “That is not fulfilled until I have survived and chosen my side. But it is a beginning.”  
  
Pettigrew nodded, looking more confident now. “Nagini is always with _Him_ ,” he said. “I can observe her easily, since I’m always in attendance on Him, too.” For a moment, a strange expression moved over his face, and Severus wondered idly if he was seeing his own doomed future, or the moment when he had condemned himself to this kind of living hell.  
  
Then he shrugged, raised his eyes to Severus’s, and said, “When should I bring you the information? And how should I get it to you?”  
  
Severus had been waiting for this. He pulled a paper bird from his robe pocket and waved his wand swiftly above it. It grew in moments into a snowy owl, rather like Harry’s. It stretched its parchment wings and hooted twice, then turned glowing amber eyes on Pettigrew, who looked both repelled and fascinated.  
  
“This bird will always find me,” Severus said calmly. And it was true; the paper owl would find its way through the wards into Grimmauld Place. “If you try to betray me, then it will grow sharper claws than it has now and hound you to death.” That wasn’t true, but Pettigrew’s face turned the required sickly grey color, and Severus was confident that, for the moment, he has secured his position as a greater threat than the Dark Lord. “Send your messages with it when you are ready.”  
  
Pettigrew nodded and scurried out of the house, the paper owl flying just above him.  
  
Severus stood where he was for a moment, gazing around Spinner’s End. He had far too many memories associated with this place, and he hated most of them. But surely, he had never thought that someday he would be using it as a meeting place in order to arrange a way to help James Potter’s son.  
  
 _And Lily’s. Do not forget her.  
  
I never do_ , he answered himself, and walked out to his Apparition point, automatically casting detection spells that would find people observing him as he walked. Being a spy had trained him well in more than one way.

*

  
“I don’t _like_ this. It’s dangerous.”  
  
Harry had to chuckle as he hugged Sirius. “When has anything since my third year been safe? Or even before that? Most schoolboys don’t go around killing basilisks and defeating their enemies in the backs of professors’ heads.”  
  
“But this is different.” Sirius’s voice was thick as he gathered Harry in his arms. He still stooped as a result of the torture Voldemort had inflicted on him, and probably always would, but his hands were strong again, and the way he held Harry made him relax almost against his will. “This time, your _friends_ are the ones who want you to go through it. And I don’t know if it’s going to work.”  
  
“We don’t really have another choice,” Harry said gently. “Unless I wanted to try to die to get rid of the Horcrux—”  
  
“You try that, and I’ll put you in your room for the rest of your life and stand guard on the door.” Sirius’s voice was thick again, but this time with the sharpness of a bark, as though he were about to transform.  
  
“No. I don’t want that. And I don’t want to die.” Harry leaned his head on Sirius’s shoulder and let his breath out slowly. “But, Sirius, you have to promise me something.”  
  
Sirius grumbled inaudibly.  
  
“Once the process starts, it’s going to be delicate,” Harry murmured. “Draco said it would be complicated even if they understood the whole theory and had practiced it before, but they don’t, and they don’t know how much time they might have to correct any errors that crop up. It’ll be worse if they’re distracted.”  
  
He fell silent, hoping that Sirius would understand what he was asking for without Harry having to say it.  
  
“You want me to promise not to interfere.” Sirius’s voice was dry.  
  
Harry leaned back and looked up at him. “Yeah.”  
  
Sirius shook his head. He was smiling, but his eyes were dark, in the way that Harry had seen them when he was chasing Pettigrew. “How can I promise that? You’re my godson, the only tie I have left to two of my best friends. And I love you for yourself, too,” he added quickly, as if he thought Harry might doubt that. “I can’t just stand back and let two Slytherins do whatever they want to you.”  
  
“Snape isn’t involved in this,” Harry said. “He’ll be providing an outside safeguard on the spells, and that’s really all. Hermione is, though. She isn’t Slytherin, and she’s always cared for me. She was loyal enough, along with Ron, to stay in Hogwarts and try to reach the basilisk venom even when they didn’t doubt Dumbledore the way I did. How can you distrust _her_?”  
  
“She could still overreach herself because she’s too confident,” Sirius said. “Lily did that sometimes.”  
  
“Someday you’ll have to tell me more stories about my parents,” Harry said, and then stepped back and put his hands on Sirius’s shoulders. “We’d find a better solution if we had more time. But we don’t, especially not if we want to stop Voldemort from attacking Hogwarts. Promise me that you won’t interfere if they let you be there, Sirius. Really, you have to, or I’ll tell them not to let you in the lab.”  
  
Sirius stared into his eyes, then stood up and turned his back, folding his arms. Harry waited. Sirius was more mature now than he seemed sometimes. Dealing with pain and physical disability had forced him to grow up a little, and being around Snape and Draco and seeing that they didn’t betray Harry had also changed him.  
  
Finally, Sirius turned around with a sigh that seemed about to split him in half and a roll of his eyes that made them look as if they’d drop out of his head. “All right,” he said. “But only because you were the one to ask me, and not Malfoy or Snivellus.”  
  
Harry glared at him. “Don’t call Snape that.”  
  
Their gazes locked until Sirius dropped his eyes and nodded. “All _right_.”  
  
Harry hugged him again, and relaxed as he felt Sirius embrace him back. He wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, because Sirius would only be too proud and Draco and Snape would have been insulted, but he was glad that Sirius had promised. Harry wanted everyone there he possibly could.  
  
 _Which probably means Mrs. Malfoy has to watch, too._  
  
But Harry was resigned even to that. After all, Mrs. Malfoy probably loved Draco even more than Sirius loved him. Of course she would want to take a similar position to Snape and watch for spells or procedures going wrong.  
  
*  
  
Draco took a deep breath and laid the Elder Wand on the table in front of him. It sparked and buzzed once, and then settled into a listening silence. Draco crouched down so he was eye-to-eye with it, assuming that there was an eye located in either end of the Wand. The silence intensified. Draco was sure it was listening, however much it probably despised him for forcing it to do that at the moment.  
  
“If you do something to me whilst you fight the Horcrux,” Draco said calmly, “if you try to sabotage us, or push Harry’s soul out of his body to wither and die, or let the bit of the Dark Lord take him over, then I’ll sever the bond between us.”  
  
The Elder Wand wavered one inch, and then promptly settled down again. Draco imagined he could hear it cursing itself for being so stupid as to show a reaction. He grinned at it, and stared walking in a circle.  
  
“I can find the weak point in the bond again, now that I’ve found it once,” he said. “Imagine that. Imagine me bearing down with pressure because you’ve displeased me. Imagine yourself existing without an owner, and without another one likely to take you up, because no one has conquered me. Imagine your long, long existence coming to an end.”  
  
The Wand spun in a complete circle and came back resting a little off-center. Draco paused and waited. He wanted more acknowledgment than that, some sign that the Wand understood his threat and would obey him.  
  
He could hear Granger’s shrill voice if he concentrated. _Are you mad, Malfoy? If you threaten it, then it just has all the more reason to turn on you!_  
  
Draco, though, was gambling that the Elder Wand’s psychology wasn’t like that. Without the reminder, it certainly would have tried to betray him. It would have decided that he’d forgotten about the weak point in the bond, too caught up in the discovery about switching souls, and then it would have acted when he was most vulnerable, in the midst of the carousel process.  
  
Now, it knew that he remembered. It knew that he could, at the very least, _say_ he would leave it behind, even if it was proud enough of its appeal to suspect that wasn’t true. And it could count itself duly warned.  
  
Yes, it might still try something. But in that case, Draco would simply cut the bond and rely on another possible defense. That defense was a wild gamble and almost certainly wouldn’t work, which was why Draco wanted the Wand’s cooperation. But he would not leave himself at the mercy of a piece of wood, no matter how powerful. He intended to be the master, not the slave.  
  
After several moments, the Wand seemed to realize what he wanted. A low, sullen buzz sounded from it.  
  
“Make the same sound if you believe me,” Draco whispered.  
  
More silence. Then the exact same buzz.  
  
Draco smiled, and snatched up the Wand. It trembled as if it wanted to burn him, but it didn’t. Draco tucked the Wand into his waistband and left the room to revise the incantations for the Switching Charms one more time.  
  
 _Twelve hours until we do this._  
  
*  
  
Harry smiled reassuringly at Ron as they walked into the room Draco and Hermione had chosen for this, the attic of Grimmauld Place. “Doing this has to hurt less than dying because Voldemort has a piece of his soul in me,” he said.  
  
Ron muttered something under his breath that sounded like “bloody _cheerfulness_.” Harry snorted. If he couldn’t see that both Harry’s cheerfulness and Hermione’s shrill refusal to discuss a possible failure were attempts to make themselves believe this would work, then he wasn’t very astute at psychology.  
  
 _But I reckon he never was_ , Harry had to admit, as Ron took his place along the wall with Sirius, Snape, and Mrs. Malfoy. Ron’s strengths lay elsewhere.  
  
Draco stood by a small table on which a book lay, holding the Elder Wand. He held himself still, but Harry knew him well enough to see the tension in that stillness. Draco read the words in the book to himself, mouthing them but with no sound, his eyes shadowed and his mind far distant from the room.  
  
Hermione had her own table, her own book, and a vial of basilisk venom in front of her. From conversations he’d overheard, Harry knew Draco had disagreed with her about having that available, but she’d chosen to anyway, and that was the way it was in the end. Draco still gave her quick disgusted glances from time to time. Hermione didn’t notice, since her head was almost literally buried in her book. If she was reading the words aloud to herself, then Harry couldn’t see it.  
  
Harry took his place between them, in a tightly warded circle. He didn’t recognize the runes and Arithmancy equations drawn on the floor. He didn’t think he was meant to. He looked out the window on the opposite wall for a moment, absorbing the sunlight there.  
  
It might be the last time he ever saw it.  
  
Harry shook his head. _I shouldn’t think like that. I should have more faith in Draco and Hermione than I do.  
  
But I’m trusting them with my life and my soul. Maybe having faith in them beyond that is a bit much._  
  
At last Hermione shut her book with a hard _snap_. Draco followed suit a moment later .Then they came together between the tables, and Draco gave Harry a small, encouraging nod. Harry smiled back. He hoped none of his doubt showed in that smile. _I’m just facing reality in acknowledging they could fail, that’s all._  
  
From the corner of his eye, he could see Sirius twitch as if he wanted to reach forwards and stop the whole business. Narcissa had no expression on her face whatsoever; the traces of suffering Harry had seen the other night were gone as if they’d never been there. Snape had his eyes narrowed and continually flickering back and forth between Draco and Hermione. Of any of the spectators, he was probably the most capable of understanding the magical theory they were using.  
  
Ron stood there with a bit of nervousness on his face, but a much steadier gaze than anyone else. _Of course, he trusts Hermione absolutely._   
  
Draco began to chant the first of several Switching Charms. Hermione followed him with words that were more familiar to Harry, since he’d been the one to use Fiendfyre on the tiara and the Resurrection Stone. The runes inscribed around the sides of the circle flared with golden light. A moment later, the equations glowed red.   
  
Draco and Hermione’s voices soared higher. Harry wanted to keep his eyes open, to smile at Draco and show he was confident, but he felt an irresistible temptation to close them. So he did, and breathed in silence for a few minutes, looking at the insides of his eyelids.  
  
A low, snarling sound reverberated through him. Harry started. It sounded like some old and terrible beast waking up.  
  
And then pain ran through him in a liquid river of fire, worse than the headache Snape had inflicted on him when he ripped Harry’s memories from him during their first Occlumency session, which until then had been Harry’s standard of agony. He screamed, and slumped to the floor—  
  
There was carpet beneath him that didn’t shine with the heat and light of the runes and the equations. There was a wand in his hand.  
  
And his head felt lighter, in a way he couldn’t explain, as if a weight bound to it since he was born had dropped off. He blinked and raised a hand to touch his brow, pausing when he saw the fingers were longer and paler and slimmer than the ones that he recognized as his own, not crisscrossed with as many dirt or calluses.  
  
 _They did it. They really did it._   
  
He looked up in wonder and saw his own body in front of him. His face was squinted up, his scar standing out, an angry red, and his eyes shut. Draco clutched at his hair and made a soft moaning noise. Harry raised the wand he held instinctively, and then realized that it had no magical force inside it; he might as well as have been clutching an ordinary plank.  
  
 _Of course. Draco took the essence of the Elder Wand with him when he switched into my body._  
  
“Draco,” he said, and struggled not to be distracted by the fact that his voice didn’t sound like his own. “Are you all right?”  
  
Slowly, Draco fought a pair of green eyes open. He was grimacing, but he made some effort to smile when he caught Harry’s gaze.  
  
“Perfectly all right,” he croaked. “We—did it once, and now we’re about to do it again.” He dropped his voice into a soothing whisper. “It’ll hurt every time we switch, because the Horcrux is desperate to keep hold of you. But you’ll have to try and keep from speaking, all right? It distracts me.”  
  
Harry heard Hermione’s frantic chanting come from the side, and saw the red and golden light of the runes and equations taking on the harsher glow of Fiendfyre. He thought about what would happen if Draco got distracted, about the way he might dissolve into ashes as the tiara and the Resurrection Stone had, and swallowed. Then he nodded.  
  
“Good!” Draco used Harry’s voice to speak the incantation of the next Switching Charm, and Harry shut his eyes.  
  
He screamed in spite of himself as the spell rotated him back into his own body. This time, the pain seemed to course up from his feet rather than downwards from his head, but it was still there, and he didn’t think he would ever get used to it. It was too sudden, too violent.  
  
The snarl was audible this time, and Harry thought he heard a faint, muffled voice saying, _I have lived in your head for sixteen years, and I am to give up my best chance to hold onto your soul? I think not._  
  
A sudden fact occurred to Harry, who blinked. They were performing this ritual on the day that Draco and Hermione had finally felt capable of trusting their magic, but it was also Halloween, sixteen years to the day that he had destroyed Voldemort’s original body and received the shard of his soul.  
  
Draco shouted the next incantation, and Harry writhed and shrieked as his soul was again torn from the grasp of something that felt like hooks sunk in his bone and spirit. But he did his best not to speak when he found himself in Draco’s body again, although he was shaking with reaction this time, and nearly dropped the wand he held.  
  
 _Screams don’t seem to distract him. Words, he said.  
  
Which is good, because I don’t think I could have kept silent even if I wanted to._  
  
*  
  
Severus stood back, watching the process narrowly, and holding his wand ready to restrain Black if the mutt did something idiotic. For the moment, he only watched himself, and muttered, and grasped at the air with clenched hands, but Black’s idiocy had a trick of rapid evolution. Severus considered himself more than usually virtuous because he had refrained from taunts so far.  
  
 _And perhaps I did that because Harry asked me to. But still, I am sure the virtue is on my side, and not on his._  
  
Then he began to sense something else. That was incredible, given the dense hum of various forms of combined magic in the air, but he had always been good at growing used to spells relatively quickly and looking beyond them. It had made him invaluable to the Dark Lord, who had sometimes posted him on the outskirts of a raid to detect the approach of Aurors.  
  
Severus turned in a slow circle, making sure to choose moments when neither Draco nor Granger was looking at him. The last thing he wanted was to shoot an unexpected shadow or flicker across their vision. Draco had emphasized the delicate nature of the process quite enough for Severus, who had known some potions that were as delicate.   
  
And yes, there it was. Outside the house, a gathering, growing cloud of Dark magic drew nearer and nearer. It spat and sang like a storm, and Severus could feel the leap of individual bolts of lightning if he concentrated.  
  
Given the date, he might have dismissed it as the buildup of belief from the Muggles, who created similar clouds on Easter and Christmas, but for that Dark edge. Not even Halloween was enough to excuse how malevolent this felt.  
  
 _The Dark Lord might._   
  
Severus moved back step by step until he found himself next to Narcissa. She was the only one in the room he could trust at the moment. Draco, Harry, and Granger were rather _involved_ , Black was incompetent to do things the quiet way, and Weasley, though he could be called upon in a crisis, was too immature still in magic and instincts. But Narcissa turned to him with quiet slowness, clearly responding to him whilst doing her part to avoid distracting the participants in the ritual.  
  
“I believe the Dark Lord may have learned of this sanctuary,” Severus breathed against her neck. “If he tries to enter the room, we must be prepared to repel him.”  
  
Narcissa’s eyebrows rose, but she didn’t waste their time asking how that could have been possible, or worrying about the outcome. She lifted her wand instead, and stood ready. Severus started to turn to Black and Weasley; he could not trust them as much, but he could, perhaps, send them out of the room to weave wards. He was unsure how the wards would interact with the magic that Granger and Draco were employing if they remained in the room.  
  
And then the wards on the outside of the building trembled in a way that let Severus know his parchment owl from Pettigrew had arrived. He narrowed his eyes. _Could the magical storm simply be the Dark Lord’s anger at learning of his servant’s betrayal? He may not yet know where we are, unless he traced the owl—_  
  
The bird soared into the room.   
  
Attached to it, and hanging grimly on for dear life, was a shrunken rat, with a shrunken Nagini wrapped about the bird’s body—  
  
And the Dark Lord soared in directly behind, his body wavering on the air like a stream of smoke, his mouth open in crazed laughter.  
  
Severus had one moment to regret giving Pettigrew a way to breach the wards around Grimmauld Place and find him, and then the Dark Lord had settled to the floor and the clash of spells was deafening.  
  
*  
  
Draco knew something was wrong as soon as he opened his eyes in his body the next time. When he was Harry, he concentrated too intently on the Switching Charms and the strange sensation of burning salt and fire—the Elder Wand fighting with the Horcrux—to let himself be distracted. He had known it would have to be that way from the beginning. There were so _many_ distractions in Harry’s body, so many things he would let himself explore if he had the time.  
  
But now…  
  
When he looked over his shoulder, the Dark Lord was there, standing with his arms folded and a slight, superior smile on his face, whilst Black fought with a pudgy man who had to be Pettigrew and his mother faced off against a giant snake. Professor Snape and Weasley—Weasley’s face was an awful white—circled the Dark Lord, trying to get at an adequate crack in his defenses, or _a_ crack.  
  
Harry screamed. Draco gave him a quick glance, but saw him too consumed by the pain he was dealing with to notice what was happening behind them. But Granger squealed at that moment, and Draco saw the Fiendfyre that was tightening in a ring around Harry waver. For a moment, leaping chimeras appeared in it, as if it would strike out at them.   
  
“Granger!” Draco snapped, hurling all the cold authority into his voice that Lucius had once tried to command when dealing with his son.  
  
She turned to look at him, tears streaking down her face, and Draco felt himself regret what he was about to do. But he had no choice.  
  
“We have to keep going,” he said. “Do you understand? No matter what you see outside the circle or who dies, we have to keep going.” He spoke as quickly as he could and still give her some chance to understand him; Harry’s scar had an evil red glow that he didn’t like at all. The Horcrux was probably making some stronger attempt to gain control of him. “I can’t do this without you, Granger.”  
  
Granger’s gaze flickered wildly to her boyfriend. The Dark Lord made a casual gesture, and a long, bloody wound opened down Weasley’s shoulder. Draco winced. His father had made him learn the Flaying Curse. Draco never wanted to use it.  
  
“But—” Granger whispered.  
  
“We _have_ to,” Draco hissed to her. “Otherwise, the Horcrux will still live in Harry, and nothing will make any difference, even if we let Harry out of the circle and he tries to fight _him_.”  
  
He saw the moment when Gryffindor courage, a colder and harder kind than was common, made the decision for Granger. She nodded once and faced the circle again, her voice rising in the Fiendfyre incantation. Weasley called her name in a hopeless, sobbing voice.  
  
Granger flinched, but kept on.  
  
Draco nodded to her, a greater commendation than she would ever know, and turned back to finish his own task.  
  
*  
  
Severus knew they were going to die.  
  
It was a dull knowledge, like lead, and as heavy in his belly. The Dark Lord had hardly to use his magic. It was all around them, like the great storm that Severus had sensed approaching, and that alone did its part to crush their spirits.  
  
Weasley was brave, but all the skin on his arms and half his chest had already been lost to the Flaying Curse. Severus had tried to defend him, but would have paid with his wand hand if he’d persisted. And so he made the decision that Weasley could be sacrificed, but Draco and Harry and Granger could not.  
  
The Dark Lord’s gaze was heaviest on him. “Severus,” he whispered. There might have been no one else in the room, so idle were the gestures that condemned Weasley to the Flaying Curse. Weasley screamed, and a splash of warm blood landed on Severus’s side, but he did not take his attention from his own Shield Charms. The Dark Lord laughed approvingly. “A good show, my old friend. I shall enjoy killing you.”  
  
And then there was the sound of glass breaking, and a loud shriek, and an equally loud, tormented hiss. Severus spun around.  
  
Narcissa lay on the ground, bleeding from a long slash down her neck. Severus understood, and grieved. Nagini’s bite had got through her defenses, and though he had a sort of antivenin, it was down in his potions lab. He had armed no one in the room with it, believing that they would not face the snake until later.  
  
But scattered around Nagini were shattered pieces of a potions vial, and the snake was writhing across the floor in random, uncoordinated patterns, uttering what Severus could only assume were shrieks in Parseltongue.  
  
He understood when he glanced back at the tableau of Granger, Harry, and Draco, and saw what was missing. In her last act of defiance, Narcissa had Summoned the vial of basilisk venom that Granger had laid aside on the table and cracked it over Nagini’s head. The snake, the last Horcrux, was dying.  
  
Even as Severus watched, she slumped over and lay still. The Dark Lord simply stared, as paralyzed with shock as anyone else.   
  
Narcissa closed her eyes and ceased breathing in much the same moment.  
  
And a dark-glittering shard of soul rose from the snake’s body and darted straight for Black, who was obliviously engaged in combat with Pettigrew, and did not see it coming.

*

  
Severus acted without thought, because he knew if he waited, then _too_ much thought would paralyze him. He used the same sorts of spells he had used when they destroyed Ravenclaw’s tiara and the Resurrection Stone, and halted the flight of the shard of spirit. It crashed into an invisible wall and floated in place, screaming in a shrill voice that made Severus abruptly wish he was deaf.  
  
The Dark Lord started to speak the first syllables of what Severus recognized as a long and complicated spell that would allow him to regain control of the piece of his spirit. Severus had considerably fewer words to speak. “Accio soul,” he whispered, and it soared towards him, and into the invisible net that his spells had prepared.  
  
For long moments, there was silence. Severus watched as the Dark Lord turned towards him, his eyes empty. That was more frightening than anger would have been. Severus could practically watch the thoughts passing behind those blank eyes without the aid of Legilimency. The Dark Lord knew they knew about the Horcruxes, and he would be working out all the implications of that.  
  
Then the Dark Lord said, in the gentlest of voices, “You will die, Severus.”  
  
“Everyone is mortal,” Severus said, and then gambled. He didn’t know how much of the ritual to remove the Horcrux from Harry the Dark Lord might have recognized. He often knew quite surprising things, given his many years of study in Dark magic. “Including you, now.” He reached out as if he would snuff the piece of soul like a candle flame.  
  
The Dark Lord’s blank eyes widened until Severus seemed to stand on a dusty black plain, beneath a sun that had burned to a cinder. He shivered in the bleak wind that blew around him, and thought he heard Lily’s voice, mourning him. _You never did amount to anything in life, Severus, and you won’t see me in the afterlife._   
  
He wanted to surrender, then, to curl up and shake with reaction.   
  
But he remembered the world he was born into, where the sun was bright and the winter wind didn’t always blow, and that gave him the ability to cry out at himself, and at his enraptured and dreaming mind, _This is Legilimency!_  
  
And suddenly he was free, and able to see the Dark Lord stalking towards him, his wand out and already weaving a net of black strands studded with obsidian, set to capture the piece of soul and guide it towards him again.  
  
Severus leaped back and strengthened his own spells. The Dark Lord halted for a moment and watched him with those same blank eyes. Severus knew he was gathering his power and that the cut, when it came, would be stronger than he could endure.  
  
On the other hand, he had no intention of standing still to meet it.  
  
He summoned up old knowledge, knowledge overheard as he watched victims writhe on the ground in front of the Dark Lord, and used the spell that would lift his body on the wind as the Dark Lord’s had been lifted. In a moment, his feet lost contact with the floor, and he zoomed out through the breach in the wards into the Halloween night.  
  
The Dark Lord howled soundlessly and followed.  
  
*  
  
Draco finished the last Switching Charm with tears streaking down his face. He had seen his mother on the floor, losing more blood than anyone should be able to and live.  
  
Which meant that she _couldn’t_ live, of course. Draco wasn’t in the mood to hide from reality at the moment.  
  
But still it didn’t matter, as long as he and Granger could finish the ritual that would free Harry before the Dark Lord attacked and they all died.  
  
It was a strange place to be in, mentally, Draco thought, as he shuddered back into his body and kept his eyes closed for a moment. To know that one thing was more important than all the rest, to force yourself not to care about someone who was once the dearest person in the world to you, to be _able_ to sacrifice that person…  
  
He shuddered and opened his eyes, turning them sideways before he turned them forwards. He met Granger’s gaze and saw the same kind of suffering and understanding in her face.  
  
Then, and only then, did he feel able to face Harry.  
  
Harry was on his knees in the middle of a tightening circle of Fiendfyre. Draco looked steadily at the flames, but didn’t see the leaping animal and demon shapes he knew would have been there if the fire had burned too long. Instead, it reached wispy tendrils inwards that passed through Harry’s face and arms as if he were a ghost. Harry still flinched. Draco thought he would have, too. Knowing that the Fiendfyre—if Granger had modified the incantations in the right way—could only burn a soul was _not_ reassuring when one had the flames leaping all around one and hissing in one’s ears.  
  
And then came the sound of a horrifying scream, one that made Draco shudder and wrap his arms around himself, feeling as if the scream would rip the fabric of reality.   
  
The fire blew out of Harry’s head again, clenched triumphantly around a small, struggling Dark figure that sometimes had a face and sometimes looked like the mass of a squashed bug. The figure freed an arm, and then a shapeless limb, and then the fire seized control of it again and _roared_. Draco thought he could hear the voice of a lion behind the normal hiss of the fire.  
  
 _That would be only appropriate_ , he thought, slightly hysterical. _The Gryffindor symbol is a lion, after all._  
  
The figure began to fade and to grow smaller at the same time, as if the Fiendfyre were simultaneously burning it to a shadow and escorting it down a long tunnel into the heart of the flames. The screams grew shriller and worse, until Draco plugged his ears on instinct, though it didn’t help at all. Granger watched, more steadily than he could, her hands white-knuckled on her wand, tears burning down her face.  
  
And then the tiny figure vanished, and the Fiendfyre winked out in the same moment.  
  
Granger whirled around with a cry and ran to where Weasley lay motionless on the floor, surrounded by a large amount of blood. Draco followed her with his eyes, then quickly gulped and looked away. In some ways, he was glad that his mother was dead already—dead beyond denial, her head almost ripped off, and Nagini dead beside her—and he didn’t have to have the desperate hope that she could be saved.  
  
Instead, he reached out his hand to Harry as he staggered slowly back to his feet, blinking and shielding his eyes as he would against a strong light.  
  
*  
  
Harry had never thought about what it would be like to be without the Horcrux. Every stray moment for the last few days had been taken up with worrying about whether Draco and Hermione would succeed, and willing them to do it. He hadn’t dared to think about _after_. That would imply too much confidence, somehow.  
  
But now it was _after_ , and his head felt lighter and clearer than it ever had. He wondered absently if the Horcrux had been affecting him mercilessly for years, making every experience—like the starvation at Privet Drive—worse than it really was.   
  
“Harry?”  
  
 _You’re scaring Draco_ , his conscience scolded him. Draco must be uncertain whether Harry was still sane after all the soul-switching they’d done. Harry blinked away his own speculations and stepped forwards, his hands on Draco’s shoulders.  
  
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I owe you a debt that I can’t ever repay.”  
  
Draco gave him a proud smile, but it was with trembling lips, and then he abruptly stepped forwards and clutched at Harry with desperate strength. Of course, he’d been through an ordeal, the same way Harry had, but Harry didn’t think it could all be attributed to that. He put a hand on Draco’s back and looked around for some clues.  
  
He saw Narcissa Malfoy first, almost decapitated, with Nagini motionless not far from her. And on top of the snake, or scattered around her in a circle, were bits of glass and drops of brilliant green venom.  
  
Sirius had just forced Pettigrew to the floor, and was binding him with _Incarcerous_ ropes, his breath ragged and ferocious. Harry could see that he was struggling with himself not to simply kill Pettigrew and be revenged in one fell swoop.  
  
And Hermione knelt beside Ron, whispering healing spells in a stream so constant that Harry hardly dared to speak again, lest he interrupt her.  
  
He couldn’t see Snape or Voldemort, but still, Harry thought he knew what had happened. Somehow, their enemies got through the wards. The Horcrux that was in Nagini had been destroyed, or, at the very least, Snape was doing his best to keep the shard of soul away from Voldemort. Narcissa was dead. Ron was dying.  
  
And with that set of realizations, complete calm fell over him. He had to be ready to destroy Voldemort when he came back, as he surely would. What else had he been training for, waiting for?   
  
Of course, that didn’t mean that other people couldn’t help.  
  
He turned around and tucked his fingers gently under Draco’s chin, lifting it until Draco could look him in the eye. “Draco,” he said. “I need you to help me. Can I borrow the Elder Wand? And can you create an illusion for me?” He dropped his voice into a persuasive tone when he saw the slow way Draco blinked at him. He seemed to have used up all his strength in the ritual, spent all his reserves, because he’d thought that he could collapse afterwards. “Can you create an illusion of the Resurrection Stone and place it in my hand? I need both of them to distract Voldemort when he comes back.”  
  
Draco gave the reflexive flinch at the sound of the name, but nodded hesitantly. Then he held up the Elder Wand and cast the illusion. And since it was _that_ particular Wand acting in concert with Draco’s will, the illusion was perfect. Harry smiled grimly down at the stone they’d put so much effort into destroying, and then accepted the Elder Wand from Draco’s nerveless hand.  
  
This time, he could feel its malevolent power, the way it immediately reached out to him and tried to judge his strength and whether it could overwhelm him and use him. Harry raised an eyebrow and ignored it after a moment. He didn’t think he would really be tempted by the Wand’s magic.  
  
And he didn’t have to _use_ it.  
  
He stepped into the center of the room, nodding at Sirius and whispering soft encouragement to Hermione, arranged himself so he should be the first thing anyone saw if they Apparated in or flew through the window, and then waited.  
  
*  
  
Severus hadn’t flown more than a few Muggle streets before he knew that he would have to turn back soon. This flight spell was exceptionally draining, which was the reason that more wizards didn’t use it. And he didn’t have the Dark Lord’s immense reservoirs of magic to draw on.  
  
But if he went back too soon, then Granger, Draco, and Harry might still be involved in the ritual, and the distraction would have been for nothing.  
  
He glanced over his shoulder. The Dark Lord still soared after him, his eyes fixed not on Severus but on the net that contained the struggling shard of soul.  
  
Severus sneered. _That is another reason you must turn back. You know that you can’t maintain the net and fly at the same time._   
  
And that undeniable fact gave him an idea for another distraction. He let himself waver, and then drop straight down, as if his ability to support the flight magic had suddenly failed.  
  
The Dark Lord zoomed after him, cackling and cawing like a crow that had suddenly seen a baby bird with a broken wing.  
  
Severus let himself fall as far as he thought was safe, subduing his own fear with inner calculations of speed and distance. This was another reason not many wizards used the flight spell. It unnerved them, or they spent too much time glorying in the unusual situation as a dream come true, and either way they lost track of the strength that was supporting them and which they needed to keep such careful track of.  
  
Severus had never had that problem. Joy could surprise him, but it could not overwhelm his senses, because he would not _let_ it.  
  
He spun in a circle, though sideways, so it would look less like the controlled spin it really was, and then shot up behind the Dark Lord.   
  
The Dark Lord, meanwhile, had committed too much to his own momentum to reverse that quickly. He slid past Severus and then turned around—by which time Severus had used his carefully marshaled strength to rise to gliding level again and shot back towards the house. This time, the cry behind him sounded like a hawk’s hunting scream.  
  
Severus felt the tingling ache in his muscles, and nodded. He had given Harry and Draco all the time he could spare. They would have to be ready to confront the Dark Lord when he and the Dark Lord returned to the house.   
  
If not…  
  
Severus did not let himself think about that possibility, or about the possibility that the Dark Lord would cut him down with a curse from behind before they ever reached Grimmauld Place. He leaned on the wind and flew, and behind him came doom and death, silent after that one furious cry.  
  
*  
  
Draco sat beside his mother, and watched Granger cradling Weasley in her arms, her expression one of pure bliss. He would need intensive Healing to repair the skin lost on his arms and shoulders to the Flaying Curse, but he would survive.  
  
Unlike Narcissa.  
  
Draco gently pushed her hair away from her neck, the strands catching in and sticking to the blood from the wound, and ignored the constant muttering from behind him. Black was telling Pettigrew in loving detail about the tortures that he would inflict on the coward and traitor the moment Harry said he could. Draco knew those tortures would never happen, for a whole host of very good reasons, but he didn’t really care about them right now.  
  
Narcissa could never have lived. Draco knew that. The fangs had gone in at an angle that both opened a jagged wound and pumped her full of poison. It was remarkable that she had lived long enough to dash a vial of basilisk venom over the snake’s head.   
  
_Granger was right after all about that being useful. I’ll have to remember to tell her so.  
  
If any of us survive what’s coming_.  
  
Draco looked up. Black, the only one who had any reason to pay attention to Professor Snape and the Dark Lord, had said they’d both flown out through the breach in the wards. He couldn’t tell when they would be back, but he didn’t seem concerned. He believed Harry would handle everything from now on, Draco knew, because he lived in a world of heroes and believed that was possible.  
  
He looked down at his mother. There was _his_ last heroine, dead. He touched her hair again, and this time he brushed it across the wound. Then he scooted back from her and wrapped his head in his arms.  
  
He had to be like Black, now. He had to trust, though not as blindly. There was no one else to stand up and save them, and he had done his part in forcing the Horcrux to release its hold on Harry’s soul, so that the Dark Lord could be defeated.  
  
At the moment, he was tired and grieving and had nothing left.  
  
So he sat there and waited for Harry Potter to save them all.  
  
*  
  
Harry lifted his head when he saw Professor Snape soaring in through the window. _Here it comes. And he’s holding—  
  
A piece of Voldemort’s soul!_  
  
It was the one thing Harry hadn’t planned on. He had thought for sure that the Horcrux in Nagini had been destroyed, because, after all, Snape had watched Hermione cast the Fiendfyre incantations and knew them, too. He should have destroyed it—except that he wouldn’t have if he kept it to lure Voldemort, the same way that Harry was trying to lure him with the illusion of the Resurrection Stone still existing.  
  
Harry took a deep breath. He wanted to let the cool plans collapse and run to Hermione, because she was the one who had done the Fiendfyre before and they didn’t have any basilisk venom left.   
  
But she was busy. And he’d done the least of anyone in the battle so far. Even Ron had been wounded fighting wand-to-wand against Voldemort, and thanks to Hermione studying some Healing spells, he would get the chance to tell everyone all about that.  
  
Unless Harry failed.  
  
He lifted his wand, cradled in his right sleeve beneath the Elder Wand, and saw Snape hit the floor, rolling. At the same moment, he tossed the magical net with the shard of soul wrapped in it straight towards Harry. Harry moved forwards, wand out, and chanted the incantations he’d used when they were destroying the Resurrection Stone. He wanted _contained_ Fiendfyre, not the kind that would char everyone in the room to ashes.  
  
He didn’t think he got it quite right, because the Fiendfyre blasted in several directions at once, and only one splash went where he commanded it. The net vanished in midair, and the shard of soul didn’t even get the chance to scream. Harry took a deep, cleansing breath, and then yelped as he saw the Fiendfyre circling back.  
  
Snape was on his feet in a moment, though, chanting strongly, and the fire recoiled and fell back from the same invisible barriers that Harry had constructed once before. He would have smiled his thanks, but Voldemort landed on the floor in front of him just then, and Harry whirled towards him, holding the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone up high.  
  
“Voldemort.” His voice cracked in the middle. That was all right. The whole point was to give himself enough time to do what he had to, whilst convincing Voldemort he was frightened and desperately trying to bargain for his friends’ lives.  
  
“Harry Potter.” The hissing voice was worse than the voice Harry had confronted through Seamus, or the shade of the original Tom Riddle he’d seen in second year, because it had more power and more malice behind it. Voldemort stalked a few steps closer, never taking his eyes from the objects in Harry’s hand. “What have you there?” His words were almost gentle this time.  
  
“The Elder Wand,” Harry answered, “one of the Deathly Hallows. And another one of the Deathly Hallows, the Resurrection Stone—and one of your Horcruxes,” he added.  
  
Inwardly, he began the spiral. He needed love, and he needed hatred. Hatred for the curse, as you needed it for any of the Unforgivables, and love to make sure he wasn’t a monster when he cast it, because love would be the reason for the curse.  
  
 _Hatred_. That was easy enough. The Dursleys, and everything they had done to him, were a black hole of hatred waiting to be exploited if he dug into it, like a tarpit. He plunged into it and came up stinking and slimy.  
  
 _Love_. The first time he’d ever felt anything like it was when he saw Hermione shyly smiling at him and Ron after they defeated the troll. And then she lied to McGonagall for them, and Ron looked at her thoughtfully and decided that she was all right after all. And they were friends.   
  
_Hatred_. He understood, now, some more of what he’d felt when Seamus destroyed his possessions. It was there, and it could burn him if he let it. He’d frozen in his shell as he did at least in part to prevent the hatred from burning him, and everyone else around him.  
  
“Harry Potter,” whispered Voldemort almost lovingly. “How did you learn of the Horcruxes?”  
  
 _Love_. In third year, seeing Sirius for the first time, realizing that here was someone with a viable connection to his parents, realizing that here was someone stubborn enough to keep digging through all the barriers that might be put up against him.   
  
_Hatred_. Fourth year, and the way Snape had turned against him at the end of the year. He’d been so furious, breathtakingly angry.   
  
“You always did underestimate Dumbledore,” Harry said. It took an effort to speak the words, to force them out against the overwhelming pressure of the emotions. Mostly, he wanted to stand still and _feel_.  
  
 _Love_. In fifth year, and Draco and Snape finding out and pulling him away from the abuse despite his digging in his heels and screaming. And Ron and Hermione hadn’t reacted as badly as they could have, either. Harry stood there and felt love blaze up in him like an enormous flame, emerald as his mother’s eyes. He thought he could remember her eyes, sometimes, if he let himself, but the real memory of love came from his friends, and his mentor, and his lover.  
  
“And if I want one of my Horcruxes _back_?” Voldemort took a step nearer, and Harry tightened a hand warningly around the illusion of the Resurrection Stone.  
  
“I want your promise that you’ll let us all go first,” he said, and made his voice harsh. “I don’t care about the rest of the wizarding world. They abandoned me, _hurt_ me.” It was no effort to give his voice a petulant edge, as he thought about the abuse he had suffered at the hands of the Dursleys and how many people had ignored it. “But I want your word that you’ll let everyone in this room go free and not hurt us for the rest of our lives. Then I’ll give you the Stone and—and even the Wand. What do I care if you conquer the world?”  
  
 _Hatred_. Suffocating, it had been, the hatred for Bellatrix when he realized what she’d done to Snape and what she’d made him live through during that year. And the disappointment in Dumbledore was sometimes not very far from hatred, given that he kept doing the wrong thing again and again, and he wouldn’t give up his obsession with the Stone.  
  
Voldemort laughed softly. He was falling for it, Harry saw. He was hurt by the circumstances of his own childhood, the orphanage and the lack of care from anyone for himself, and he had damned the world when he started making Horcruxes. He would think it entirely reasonable for Harry to do the same thing. He was limited by his own emotional reactions.  
  
 _I feel sorry for him_ , Harry thought, the suffocation of the emotions too much again, and then the pity crowned the last emotion he pulled up.  
  
 _Love_. So much love, these last months, as he understood fully what he was fighting for. As he honored his friends for their stubbornness and willingness to help him across time and distance. As he explored Draco’s body. As he watched Sirius heal. As he finally started trusting Snape again, after so many years.   
  
The love flooded through him, and burned out the hatred. Harry blinked and gasped slightly. He had thought he needed the hatred, but he didn’t, not really. He simply needed to acknowledge it as part of who he was, so that he didn’t become trapped in repeating the same actions again and again, the way Voldemort had.  
  
At the moment, he was far more _whole_ than he had ever been before.  
  
And it was pity that made him raise his wand, because Voldemort would never know anything like this, and whisper, not the Unforgivable he had intended to use, but something simpler, because Voldemort was mortal now, and didn’t need to die by the Killing Curse.  
  
“ _Acer_.”  
  
Voldemort watched the golden beam of light approach him without trying to do anything about it, because he thought he was still immortal, that a Horcrux still existed. Harry thought, in the moment he had before the spell hit, that he could wave his own wand and banish the illusion of the Resurrection Stone, so that Voldemort would know it was hopeless.   
  
But he held his hand in the end. There was no need for cruelty.  
  
The Slicing Spell sliced across Voldemort’s throat and took his head off. His expression was still expectant, still full of laughter, as his head soared across the room and his body fell, spouting blood. Harry immediately used another spell to contain its spread and then sat down, hard, as the strength and the emotions left him all at once.  
  
But with Draco suddenly on his left side, supporting him, and Snape’s steady hand on his shoulder, he did not fall.


	31. Epilogue: Seasons

  
There were words being said. Draco didn’t care about the words.  
  
There were people moving around them, distant relatives who had felt the obligation to show up for the occasion, reporters held at a respectful distance by wards, and curious onlookers. Draco didn’t care about the people.  
  
Harry was by his side, and his mother was being lowered into the ground. _That_ was what he cared about.   
  
Draco felt Harry wrap an arm around his shoulder, and glare at the people who came shuffling up, trying to talk to him. He was aware of a distant gratitude, which he could show only by leaning against Harry and closing his eyes. His tongue was too thick and heavy in his mouth to talk. His eyes burned.  
  
 _Where are the tears_? When he had envisioned his mother dying before, Draco had always pictured tears. But he couldn’t weep, any more than he’d been able to when he first saw his mother’s body lying motionless on the floor of the Black attic. The shock of her death had burned away the tears. The fire was still there, charring any attempts to come to a reasonable conclusion or respond to the platitudes that people offered him.  
  
Harry protected him. Harry stood by his side and snapped at or gave stiff thanks or offered a glare to the people who came stealing up to them. On the other side of Harry was a wall consisting of his friends and Professor Snape and Harry’s Black, but Draco didn’t have to be aware of them.  
  
He was glad.  
  
Narcissa’s will had decreed that she should be buried in rain. Draco didn’t know why. Only now, as he watched the coffin vanish into the heavy earth, turned mud by the steadily pounding storm, of the small private graveyard that the Malfoys had used for centuries, was he coming to realize how little he had known about his mother. She had been an imposing presence in his life, but she had occupied little space in his mind.  
  
Until now, when he knew that he would never see her again.  
  
The coffin had already vanished. The earth descended on it in a light, skimming arc, lifted by the wand of the grey-robed priest Draco had hired to officiate. He was droning some regulation words about rebirth and flowers rising in spring that were killed in autumn. Draco knew that was nonsense. His emotions might come back to life—though, at the moment, it didn’t feel like it—but his mother never would.  
  
 _Is there a bleaker month than November_? Every tree Draco could see in the graveyard was black and slender and twisted, its leaves already gone. The graveyard itself was flat and blank beneath the leaden sky. The rain could have been cleansing, but it didn’t feel either warm or cold as it fell on Draco’s skin; he’d told Harry not to bother with the Impervious Charms he wanted to cast. It felt simply neutral, as if the world didn’t care that Narcissa was dead.  
  
 _It doesn’t_ , Draco reminded himself. _You do, and Harry does, and the other people who were there do. But the rest just want a good story. And Father can’t care, because he was dead before she was._   
  
The grief for his father that he hadn’t really allowed himself to acknowledge mixed with the grief for his mother, and he turned and buried his head in Harry’s shoulder as the funeral wore on to a close. Harry wrapped another arm around him and stood there rocking him. Draco stiffened, but Harry didn’t seem to care about what the observers would say, so Draco forced himself to relax and not care, either.   
  
_I just want it to end_ , he thought. _I want the rain to stop. I want to stop feeling. I want to go to sleep and never wake up._  
  
But then he felt Harry’s warm hand on his back, stroking over and over, and he had to realize that even that wasn’t true, not really. _I want the pain to stop, but I want to roll over and see that Harry is still next to me, too. I can’t stop living, because it wouldn’t be fair to either of us. Any of us, if you include Mother in that.  
  
She was never reconciled to Harry dating me._   
  
That was the way it would have to be, Draco thought, as the ceremony finally ended and the grey-robed wizard departed, followed by most of the people who’d been staring. He wouldn’t get some miraculous rebirth or sudden end to his pain. He would have to wear and muddle through it, and gradually the grief would dull and become a wound that chance circumstances pressed on sometimes.  
  
 _That’s all._  
  
“You must be Draco,” said a diffident female voice. “I—I know that your mother probably warned you against me, but she was my sister, and I can’t go on thinking that her son hates me. Will you talk to me, at least?”  
  
Draco raised his head, blinking. Harry tightened his embrace, but he’d allowed these people to approach, which meant they weren’t reporters. Draco examined them cautiously, his mind so fuzzy that even the clue of one of them being his mother’s sister didn’t register for long moments.  
  
One of them was older and heavyset, with so many streaks of grey in her hair that Draco wondered why she didn’t use glamour charms. Her hair and eyes were dark, so that she looked a lot like Harry’s Black. The other was a young woman with shockingly pink hair, which Draco couldn’t help thinking was indecent in a graveyard. She wore Auror robes, too, which made Draco look in several directions for other Aurors.  
  
“I am Andromeda Tonks,” said the older woman. “I’m Narcissa’s older sister.” Draco nodded slowly, feeling as though he were moving underwater. _Yes, the one who married a Muggleborn. I remember Mother telling me about her_. “And this is my daughter, Nymphadora.” She gestured to the young woman, who offered Draco a grimace that could have been embarrassed or sympathetic. “I hope—I hope that you’ll allow us to know you, and not keep up this separation between our branches of the family that has already gone on too long.”  
  
Draco spent a moment studying them instead of answering. He didn’t know what his mother would have wanted him to do. There must be a reason that she had never contacted Andromeda again, even though she wasn’t mad or a follower of the Dark Lord like Bellatrix.  
  
But Narcissa was dead, and Draco was sure that he would never know the reason, any more than he knew why she had wanted to be buried in the rain.  
  
With a little effort, he found his voice. “I’d like to know you,” he said. And that was true as far as he went. He didn’t say anything about what his mother would have thought, because he didn’t _know_ about his mother. “I—can you speak to me some other time, when I’m not trying to—” He gestured towards the grave, and then shut his eyes and shook his head.   
  
“Of course, dear,” Andromeda said at once, and squeezed his arm. “Come along, Nymphadora.”  
  
The girl, or woman—Draco thought she was older than he was—muttered under her breath as she followed her mother. She looked back once to smile slightly at Draco and offer a wink. Her hair changed to black, and Draco blinked. _She must be a Metamorphmagus._  
  
That one fact, strangely, altered his perception of them. There were relatives out there he didn’t know about. There were facts that he could consider whether or not his parents would have considered them.   
  
There were months of his life still to come that would not be spent in grief for his parents, as odd as that seemed to him right now.  
  
Harry suddenly put a hand beneath his chin and turned Draco’s face around, so that Draco was looking straight up into his eyes. “Are you all right?” Harry whispered. His own voice was hoarse with weeping, though Draco knew that was more because of _him_ than anything else. Harry had no reason to mourn Narcissa.  
  
Draco looked slowly in several directions, blinking now and then when his eyes encountered another bleak tree. Weasley and Granger were coming slowly towards them, pausing every few steps to watch him with covert anxiety. And that was another thing Narcissa wouldn’t have understood, the idea that someone Muggleborn could have any consideration for someone pure-blood.  
  
The necessity to muddle through this wouldn’t ease. But for the first time, Draco thought he _could_ muddle through.  
  
“I will be,” he told Harry quietly.  
  
*  
  
“And it is the verdict of the Wizengamot that Sirius Black be cleared of all charges.”  
  
Harry shut his eyes and sagged against his chair as the words hit his ears. He’d been granted a seat of honor to watch the proceedings, as Sirius told his story under Veritaserum and gave his Pensieve memories of the day when he’d confronted Pettigrew in a Muggle street. Pettigrew, the coward, had refused to give his own memories, but, luckily, the Wizengamot had decided that didn’t matter.  
  
Sirius was free now. He could get better help for the injuries of his that still remained from Voldemort’s torture of him. He could walk freely down any street in wizarding England and not be arrested on sight. He had a wider, better life awaiting him.  
  
Harry could feel the intense relief washing him like cool water. His victory over Voldemort would have meant little if people like Sirius were still going to be mistreated and vilified. The Ministry’s power structure would have remained in place, unchanged and unchallenged. And probably another Dark Lord could have come along in a few years to take advantage of that.  
  
Instead, Sirius was free, and that gave Harry some hope for the other changes.  
  
He opened his eyes to see Sirius standing in front of him, beaming like a maniac. “We did it!” he crowed, and seized Harry in his arms, swinging him around and around like he was a much younger child. For once, Harry didn’t mind that. He laughed and hugged Sirius back, hanging on even when Sirius puffed dramatically and set him on the floor of the courtroom.  
  
“Aren’t you glad now that you didn’t kill him?” Harry asked, as he wiped something that was surely not a tear out of his eye and smiled up at Sirius.  
  
And just like that, the shadows came back, sliding across Sirius’s face and darkening his joy. He turned away to stare at the wall. Harry winced. He might have defeated Voldemort with unusual certainty, but the sureness had left him since then; it seemed that killing someone wasn’t enough to make him grow up, no matter how much he wished it were.   
  
“There are some hours I still wish I could have killed him,” Sirius whispered. “For James and Lily. They didn’t deserve to die like that. You deserved to have them with you.” He stroked Harry’s hair. “And he made me spend twelve years in Azkaban when I didn’t have to.”  
  
Another shadow. Harry doubted he would ever understand the full scope of Sirius’s suffering, of what he’d had taken away from him.  
  
“But on the whole,” Sirius said, with a shake and a straightening of his shoulders, “I’m glad I didn’t, yes.” He cast a glance at Pettigrew, who was being marched out of the courtroom between two Aurors. His trial for the crime would come later, Harry had heard, but he’d still been required to attend in case he had some defense of himself to offer against Sirius’s testimony and memories. He’d had none, and now he walked with his head bent and his feet wavering with shock. “I owe that to you,” Sirius went on, pulling Harry’s attention back to the conversation in front of him.  
  
“What?” Harry frowned at him. “No, you don’t.”  
  
“Of course I do.” Sirius’s voice was soft, and he took Harry’s shoulders and gave them a little shake. Harry swallowed. He had to blink hard in the next moment, because he _knew_ that his eyes would do something embarrassing if he gave them the chance. “I wanted to live because of you. I started caring about something other than killing Wormtail because of you. When I came to the school, I knew you were James and Lily’s son, but I didn’t _know_ you. You were just a symbol to me.  
  
“But you became more than that. You gave me a chance. Sometimes you did things I didn’t understand—” Sirius’s eyes rolled to the side, to the chairs where Draco and Snape were sitting “—but that hardly matters. After all, that showed you were your own independent person, not a reflection of James.   
  
“You gave me something to live for. And that’s the debt I owe you, the debt I’ll never be able to repay.”  
  
Harry tried to answer, but his words were all choked and his _stupid eyes were watering_ , so in the end, he hugged Sirius again and hoped the words he couldn’t speak would be understood. Sirius’s hand slowly smoothed up and down his spine. So Harry thought they were.  
  
*  
  
He should not be here.  
  
But Severus had never been good at resisting temptation in the sense of ignoring it. He must dance up to the line and look thoughtfully at the consequences of his actions before he could be convinced that it was better to do nothing.  
  
In this case, the problem was that all the consequences he could see were favorable, and provided him with no reason not to do what he was contemplating.  
  
 _Which almost certainly means there is something I am missing._  
  
Severus walked quietly through the neatly tended front garden and tapped his wand against the door. He hardly needed magic to charm open the cheap Muggle locks. He stepped into the house and shut the door behind him, so that no curious neighbor would see it hanging open. He had no intention of bringing himself into conflict with either magical or Muggle authorities.  
  
Number Four, Privet Drive, was a smaller and more ordinary place than he had imagined. He had thought, against all his previous experience, that the very walls would somehow stink of the pain they had witnessed. But, of course, they stood silent, as mute as the walls of his own house had been when his father—  
  
Severus carefully wrapped the memories in thick paper and tucked them away into darkness and silence. Then he began to walk through the house, a charm muffling the sound of his steps, his wand carrying a weak _Lumos_ that he could extinguish at any moment if he heard someone stirring.  
  
There was the cupboard door that led to the “room” where Harry had lain for ten years of his life. Severus put a hand on that door and stood with his eyes shut, counting a hundred breaths. It needed that long to calm the black anger that had risen to the surface of his mind. It was an anger he remembered from conflicts with the Marauders, and he did not want to act that incautiously here.  
  
He stepped away from the cupboard at last and continued his exploration of the kitchen. It was impeccable, the table scrubbed as if Petunia wanted to use it for a mirror rather than a place to eat food from. He opened the icebox and the cabinets and looked in silence at an abundance of food.  
  
 _All this food, and they could not feed him a few morsels of it._   
  
Again Severus had to pause and freeze his anger before he could go on.  
  
He walked up the stairs, listening intently for the sounds of Muggles. It was a winter midnight, and from what his spying spells had told him, the Dursley family went to bed early on almost all cold nights. But even Muggles sometimes had almost magical ways of detecting intruders in their home. Severus wished to use as little magic as possible to evade them, particularly when normal caution would do.  
  
 _Until the moment when magic is required._   
  
Harry’s room was not hard to locate. Severus had seen enough from his memories to know approximately where it lay in relation to the other bedrooms, and the locks on the door rather gave it away. Severus spent a moment tracing his wand over the locks and imagining the various ways he could disintegrate the metal, which lessened his temptation to burst the door open and scourge the prison clean with fire.  
  
He stepped inside at last, and gazed around.  
  
There were marks of dust and rust where the owl cage had once stood. There was the small and empty bed. There was the barred window that Severus still could not fathom escaping the notice of any halfway _competent_ observer.  
  
And here at last was what he had been almost unconsciously searching for ever since he stepped into the house. The Dursleys must not have cleaned this room since Harry had been resident here; indeed, given the locks on the door, they seemed to have preferred to shut it up and forget it existed, rather like its inhabitant. Severus’s nose moved carefully, sniffing out sweat and urine and pain.  
  
Perhaps pain did not have a smell, but Severus had learned a scent rather like it in his years with the Death Eaters. That scent was here.  
  
He held out his wand and whispered an incantation that was unlikely to set off any Ministry alarms. It was a memory spell, calling on the bed and the other furniture to give up their impressions of humans who had lived here. One might well see something upsetting from it, but it was not an upsetting spell in and of itself.  
  
In silence, Severus watched as a wispy shape blew up out of the bed and settled itself into a lying posture, reading an invisible book. Another shape appeared next to the window, and then a third by the owl cage, his hand lifted to pet the bird who no longer lingered there.  
  
The shapes acquired more form and definition as he waited. There was no color—they remained little more than grey copies of the living boy that was, or had been, Harry—but he could see the state of their health from a swift examination.  
  
Every one was too thin. Every one was too small. Harry might have moved on, and would never again live in a situation where he was subjected to such regular and intense starvation, but the consequences of that malnutrition would persist for the rest of his life. He would never be as tall as James had been, would never look like the person he had been destined by his inheritance to be. Severus supposed he should be thankful that the Dursleys had not starved Harry in the same way when he was a young child, or his brain would have been affected.  
  
The notion of being thankful to the Dursleys for _anything_ made him close his eyes and fight nausea for long moments.  
  
When he opened them again, the wispy figures had gone. Severus turned and walked out the door of the bedroom, locking the locks again with a series of quick wand-taps.  
  
Then he stood in the middle of the upper corridor and had to make a decision, one that he would not be tempted to reverse the next day.  
  
He knew that Harry would prefer simply to not think about the Dursleys ever again. He had moved on. He would sigh if Severus asked him about his “family” and say that he didn’t wish them well or evil. They were part of his past.  
  
But the effects of what they had done lingered, and if Harry was capable of dismissing that from his mind, Severus was not.  
  
On the other hand, if he moved too openly against the Dursleys, in a way that could be traced back to him, Harry was unlikely to forgive this interference. Severus had spent enough years struggling to gain Harry’s trust that he was reluctant to sacrifice it now.  
  
And yet…  
  
Severus opened his eyes and began to move his wand in a series of sinuous passes through the air, whispering the Latin words he had studied before he came here with careful concentration. The incantations included masking spells that would keep his magic from the notice of the Ministry. If he faltered in the pronunciation of any of the words, the masks would fall and the Ministry could sense what he was doing.  
  
The main spell took form as a long black ribbon that billowed through the air and then dived through the walls. It would settle in the foundations of the house and go to sleep like a seed waiting for the proper circumstances to grow and flourish.  
  
Those circumstances would involve behavior like the cruelty the Dursleys had shown to Harry. If they someday had a magical grandchild or relative in their custody and abused him or her again…  
  
Severus smiled slightly and turned to leave the house.   
  
He would not want to die the death the Dursleys would die if that happened.  
  
*  
  
“Do you want me to come with you, mate?”  
  
Harry smiled and glanced over his shoulder. Ron stood just behind him, eyes wide and concerned. The scars on his chest and arms from the Flaying Curse were still visible, angry red lines that raced and twined past each other. Harry looked at them and lost his smile. He would never forget the part Ron had played in defense of his life, giving him time to get the Horcrux out of his head.  
  
“You’re a hero,” he said. “You know that, right, Ron?”  
  
Ron blushed. Then he cleared his throat. “Hermione might have said something like that once,” he muttered.  
  
“You _are_.” Harry walked back to him and put his hands on Ron’s shoulders, holding him tight. “About everything. The way that you accepted my friendship with Draco and Snape helping me, the way that you kept me sane when I was _trying_ to go mad, how you stayed here and researched the Horcruxes and the basilisk venom with Hermione when you didn’t have to, and then the way that you went up against Voldemort himself.”  
  
Ron reached out and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, too. He shook his head and tried to say something, but whatever it was died before it left his mouth. His eyes were too bright.  
  
“For right now,” Harry whispered, “you’ve done enough. I don’t think that anyone but me can really go through with this. And it might not be fair to _him_ if I brought company. I don’t think he has anyone standing with him as moral support.”  
  
“Who would?” Ron muttered, but he clapped Harry on the shoulder, hard, and let him go when Harry opened his mouth to argue. “I know. There are still people saying _he_ did the right thing and you did the wrong one, or that there should have been some way to compromise. But there are a lot more who think that you’re the real hero. _You_ know _that_ , right?”  
  
Harry managed to smile. “I think I managed to figure it out, somewhere between the Order of Merlin and the cheering crowds who watched me receive it.”  
  
Ron nodded without smiling this time, his eyes blazing and intense. “Go show Dumbledore that you don’t need _him_ to give you meaning in your life, or tell you that you’re right.”  
  
“No.” Harry smiled more widely and more naturally. “I have you and Hermione and Draco and Snape and Sirius for that.” He waved, then turned and spoke the password, “Canary Creams,” to the gargoyle. It leaped aside, and Harry stepped slowly onto the moving staircase behind it. He didn’t think that Dumbledore would really close the walls on either side of the staircase and crush him between them, but he had to admit that it was something he had wondered about.  
  
Dumbledore had sent a message saying that he wanted to see Harry soon after Sirius was cleared of all charges. Harry had refused then, not feeling up to talking with him. Then another letter had come, and another. By the third owl, Harry had decided that this was something he needed to face.  
  
The staircase stopped moving and deposited him before the door of Dumbledore’s office. Harry took a deep breath, blinked slowly, and then decided there was no point in putting off the inevitable. He knocked.  
  
Dumbledore’s voice answered, low and pleasant. “Do come in, Harry. I’ve been expecting you.”  
  
 _That could be good or ominous_ , Harry thought, and pushed the door open.   
  
The office inside looked much as it ever had, except less crowded. Dumbledore appeared to have got rid of a lot of the artifacts that had been sitting in corners and on tables. In one corner sat Fawkes on his perch; he pulled his head from under his wing and cooed when he saw Harry. The window showed the sparkling, hard crystal-clear winter morning outside, under a sky of hammered blue.  
  
“Thank you for coming, Harry.” Dumbledore rose from behind his desk to command Harry’s attention.  
  
Harry blinked. He knew he had grown since the last time he was at Hogwarts, but he still had not expected the Headmaster to look so—small.  
  
Dumbledore smiled as if he knew what Harry was thinking. Harry wondered if he’d used Legilimency, but he thought he would have felt someone sliding behind his shields now. He would never be as accomplished at the mental arts as Snape and Draco were, but he was good enough.  
  
“It feels like decades have passed since we last stood here, instead of the almost-year that it’s been.” Dumbledore clasped his hands together and looked pensively at Harry. “I would give a great deal to change the past.”  
  
Harry wondered if he expected a similar sentiment from him. Harry couldn’t give it, since he wouldn’t change the past for anything. That would probably have left him with the Dursleys, and distrusting Snape, and apart from Draco. Not to mention that it was hard to see how Voldemort would have been defeated, if Dumbledore had insisted on keeping the Resurrection Stone.  
  
“I know the Stone has been destroyed,” Dumbledore went on. “You need not fear that I will ever attempt to take it from you again.”  
  
“Is that only _because_ the Stone’s been destroyed,” Harry asked, the words almost wrenched out of him, “or because you’re really over your obsession with the thing? If we’d managed to keep the Stone somehow while removing the Horcrux from it, would you still try to take it away?”  
  
Dumbledore looked at the floor for the first time. His voice was a sad whisper. “Alas, Harry, I do not know.”  
  
Harry looked at him, trying to find the _real_ Dumbledore in the one in front of him, not simply the one he remembered. He looked at the way Dumbledore’s hands twitched across each other, and the way he hunched his shoulders as if he were resisting a strong wind, and the way his beard trembled.  
  
 _He’s afraid that I’ll reject his apology. Or maybe he’s afraid of me._   
  
Harry felt most of his irritation melt into pity. “I forgive you,” he said.  
  
Dumbledore looked up, his face showing that he hoped Harry’s words were true, but couldn’t allow himself to accept them yet. Harry almost smiled. Dumbledore had always wanted more proof for the things that Harry thought were obvious, more explanation than Harry wanted to give him.  
  
 _Maybe that’s part of the reason I get along so well with Snape. Neither of us want to show our emotions all that much, so we do what we have to and ignore the rest._   
  
“I don’t like what you did,” Harry said. “But I can understand why you did it. I just—I couldn’t stay here and let you try to possess the Horcrux and defend it from being destroyed. Do you understand why I left now?”  
  
Dumbledore nodded slowly. His eyes had no trace of a twinkle. “That is the way in which I would give a great deal to change the past, Harry. If you had had Hogwarts as a refuge—if you could have trusted me—I could have been a great help to you in destroying the Horcruxes and training to defeat Voldemort.”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry said simply. _Maybe Narcissa and Lucius and Seamus wouldn’t have died._   
  
But he didn’t _know_ that, and one of the things he had tried to stop himself from having since the final battle with Voldemort were useless regrets. Draco had whispered to him in the night how he didn’t know his mother well enough to realize why she wanted to be buried in rain, or to know whether she would have ever approved of his relationship with Harry. Harry had stroked his hair and said the appropriate comforting things, but the conversation had started his mind running on whether his parents would have approved of the way he’d turned out.  
  
Then he rejected the thought and refused to consider it again. Because they might not approve of him—lovers with a Slytherin, student and in some ways adopted son of a man his father had despised—but Harry didn’t care. He’d never known them, and the circumstances of his life hadn’t let him cling to the dead. It was the living he needed.  
  
 _And who need me_ , he thought, as he looked up and into Dumbledore’s eyes again.  
  
“Don’t blame yourself for might-have-beens,” he said. “At least everything turned out all right, and your chasing me away from Hogwarts wasn’t fatal.” He mustered up a faint smile, since Dumbledore still looked so anxious. “If it had been, and Voldemort was able to get hold of the Horcruxes before we did, _then_ maybe I would never have forgiven you.”  
  
Dumbledore nodded. Harry doubted that he had accepted the words yet, but at least, from the slowness of the nod and the long sigh that he gave afterwards, he might have begun to let them percolate through his mind.  
  
“Will you come back to Hogwarts, my boy?” Dumbledore’s voice was gentle now, and Harry realized it was a question rather than an assumption. He relaxed, where he had begun to bristle. _He isn’t demanding it. He isn’t assuming that I’ll do it because he wants me to. He’s leaving it up to me._   
  
“I don’t think I can,” Harry said. “Not because of you,” he added, as Dumbledore’s face changed again. “But this place is my past. I want to go forwards, to live my life with Draco and Professor Snape and see what happens.”  
  
“I hope,” Dumbledore said, “that you will at least visit when you can. To keep an old man and his phoenix company, if nothing else.” He held out his hand.  
  
Harry shook it. Fawkes flew over and sat on his shoulder, fluffing out his tail and crooning importantly. Harry touched his feet and received a swift rub on his cheek from Fawkes’s head.  
  
 _And one wound of my life closes without much bleeding._  
  
*  
  
Draco had known it was coming.  
  
It had been obvious for some days now that Harry wanted it. He kept staring at Draco with this sharp expression on his face. Draco couldn’t interpret it any of the obvious ways. Harry wasn’t restless; he’d been the one to suggest staying mostly in Grimmauld Place for the first few months after the Dark Lord’s defeat and giving the mobs a chance to get over their passionate frenzy for news of the Savior. They could catch up on their reading and the education they hadn’t got at Hogwarts, he’d pointed out. And he could help Draco work through his grief over his parents.  
  
Draco hadn’t had much to object to, once Harry put it that way.  
  
So Harry wasn’t restless. He wasn’t bored, since he would be tapping his foot on the floor and sighing if he was. He couldn’t be hungry; they’d eaten only two hours ago. And he wasn’t tired, since he and Draco had decadently slept in until noon today, tangled around each other and snoring—well, Harry was snoring, since Draco didn’t snore—into each other’s ears.  
  
So he must, finally, want the kind of sex that Draco had flatly told Harry he wanted some months ago.  
  
Of course, it was more fun to pretend that he didn’t know that. So Draco kept his eyes innocently on the book in front of him, and watched from the corner of his eye as Harry abandoned any pretense of study to stare at him openly. Harry’s fingers were tightening more and more on the page. His legs were slightly parted, and Draco could see the growing erection.   
  
He held back his chuckles and sat still, now and then asking Harry a question or giving him advice in a tone so bright and helpful that Harry would have seen through it in a second, ordinarily. But Harry didn’t have much blood in his brain at the moment. He answered shortly, and the silence went on growing more and more tense.  
  
“Fuck this.”  
  
Draco looked up with eyes even wider as Harry flung his book to the floor, stalked over to him, and grabbed Draco’s book away. He was just glad that Granger wasn’t here as Harry hauled him into his arms; she would squawk about the treatment of a precious, precious tome and destroy the mood entirely.  
  
 _Do_ you _want to destroy the mood, substituting for her absence by the voice in your head_? Draco asked himself, and then curled his arms around Harry’s neck and returned his kiss with some interest. He could feel Harry rutting steadily against his leg, and his own erection pressing into Harry’s stomach, and his own smugness and pride and pleasure. This was happening. It was really, _finally_ happening.   
  
Anyone else would probably have moved like this generations ago, but Harry had had to deal with so much grief and stress and tension and relief that Draco wasn’t that surprised it hadn’t happened earlier.  
  
Now—now they were free, or something like it. Now he could think of Harry’s cock up his arse without feeling that he _should_ be thinking about the Elder Wand instead, or Horcruxes.  
  
 _And that’s another thing that could destroy the mood if I let it, so that’s enough of that_ , he decided firmly, and tilted back his head so that he could study Harry’s darkened eyes, his red face, his straggling hair and huffing breath. Even the slight redness in his scar—Harry had taken to rubbing it when he was angry or deep in thought—was appealing. “Fuck me,” Draco said, because that was what he felt like.  
  
Harry actually held his breath, until Draco nudged him sharply in the chest to get him breathing again. Then he whispered, “You—you want that?”  
  
“If I didn’t,” Draco said, “I would have hopped down from your arms by now and returned to my studies with a tirade that would put Granger to shame. And no,” he went on, as Harry opened his mouth to ask more questions, “I don’t want to fuck _you_ right now. That will happen later, when you’re in the mood of calm anticipation that you must be in to appreciate such an enormous favor. Preferably after you’ve fucked me and we’ve slept.” He curled his leg around Harry’s waist and kicked him in the arse when Harry just stood there, blinking. Harry yelped and staggered forwards. Draco scowled at him. “What part of _fuck me_ are you not understanding?”  
  
And then, finally, Harry’s brain caught up with his muscles, and he both dragged and wrestled Draco up the stairs to bed.  
  
*  
  
Draco was laughing. He sprawled back on the pillows, his hair stuck to his face with sweat, and laughed as Harry fumbled inappropriately with the tube of oil they’d used plenty of times before, to slick their fingers and make wanking more pleasant, or ease the slide of a finger into an arsehole. Chuckles rippled up from his chest and made his eyes shine brighter. His chest shook, and so did the erection standing clearly up from his lap now that he was naked.   
  
He looked glorious, and utterly abandoned, and happier than happy.  
  
Harry almost dropped the oil because he was busy staring at Draco, instead of what he was doing. Draco laughed at him again, and because he was thinking about how to make that sound even better, Harry finally got the oil in the right place.  
  
He was too rough when he penetrated Draco with his finger, and Draco hissed and complained between his teeth, and Harry slowed, mortified. But Draco stared back at him and said, “Where were you raised, that a bit of pain means _stop_?”  
  
Harry laughed in turn, because this was how comfortable they were with one another, that Draco could refer to his childhood and Harry wouldn’t mind it, and slid his finger a bit deeper. Draco tilted his head back and gasped for air. Harry leaned down before he thought about it and mouthed at Draco’s throat.  
  
A hand clasped his head and hauled him close. Draco kissed his temple, then his hair, then his cheek. “Harry,” he sighed into his ear.  
  
“Yeah?” Harry smiled. Draco’s tone was so soft that he thought he might be about to hear a declaration of love.  
  
“Get _on_ with it.”  
  
Harry laughed again, and went on exploring with his fingers. Once or twice he managed to hit Draco’s prostate; it wasn’t something he was good at. But that didn’t matter, because he expected to have the rest of his life to get good at it.  
  
Draco snapped out when he was ready for two fingers, and then went on to three before Harry thought he could possibly want them. When Harry expressed that opinion, though, Draco glared up at him and said, “Listen, whose arse is it?”  
  
Harry laughed again, and had to fight the temptation to collapse on top of Draco and kiss him until they both came simply from that.  
  
It had never been like this, this uncomplicated and brilliant laughter without a hint of the tension that had ruled the relationship between them and the war outside their room for so long. Harry highly approved. They deserved _one_ thing that was simple and straightforward.  
  
“Cock now,” Draco said. Harry had driven him to monosyllables some time ago. Still, Harry swallowed, because it seemed awfully soon.  
  
“Are you—”  
  
:”If you ask if I’m sure,” Draco said, one eye peering up at Harry from his flushed and ecstatic face, “then I’m throwing you out of the room and finishing this in a wank by myself.”  
  
“Oh, dear,” Harry said, pressing his erection into place, “back to two syllables. That’s not a good sign.” He felt dizzy and reckless and light as the words blew out of his mouth. Whenever he’d dared to picture this in the past—whenever he’d thought he’d live to see it, instead of dying at Voldemort’s hands—he’d thought of it as a deep and solemn affair, with him and Draco rocking together and staring into each other’s eyes. One mistake would ruin it forever.  
  
It was nothing like that at all, he thought as he slid in, and he was _so glad_.  
  
Draco caught his breath and held it for a moment, his eyes fluttering almost shut. Then he nudged pointedly at Harry’s arse with his foot. Harry slid another few inches, and laughed at the look of bliss on Draco’s face. “I can’t possibly be hitting anything worth hitting yet,” he said. He had to concentrate on his own words to force them out. Tightness and gripping _heat_ , and oh, it was _brilliant_.   
  
He tried not to tell Draco that, though, because he was fairly sure that Draco already knew.  
  
Then they _were_ rocking together, but Draco’s legs were going at all sorts of awkward angles, and Harry was moaning and sighing about heat and tightness even though he’d promised himself he wouldn’t, and the oil made the most terrific squelching noises, and Draco squealed like a pig introduced to sugar. They rolled halfway across the bed and almost off. Then Harry braced his knees and started shoving, and Draco’s head hit the headboard.  
  
Draco complained again. Harry laughed—it seemed to be the only response he was capable of—and dug his heels in more firmly. Then he settled down to more straightforward fucking, whilst Draco panted and writhed and in general acted in a way that Harry fully intended to tease him about.  
  
More heat. More brilliance. Harry could feel happiness coiling through him in long, lazy strings, like swirls of sunlight in water.  
  
Draco opened his eyes and gave him a deep, sweet smile, craning his neck as if he wanted a kiss.  
  
Harry came, hard. He babbled out nonsense as he did, and pleasure kicked him in what felt like every single muscle of his body, and he was laughing again, really, he needed to stop that—  
  
And then Draco was coming, arse pumping, cock spasming, a sort of complicated _blaarrgh_ noise emerging from his mouth, and Harry slumped forwards over Draco’s chest and got his cheek in the mess.  
  
Then he apparently went to sleep, because the next thing he remembered was waking up and seeing Draco in the fall of spring sunlight through the window, still naked but with a Cleaning Charm done, standing beside the table on the other side of the room where he’d left his notes for a new spell he was inventing. He turned around when Harry woke up and gave him the sweetest smile on earth.  
  
Harry knew that not everything in their lives would be good, but some things had to be, and that moment was one of them.  
  
*  
  
“Professor Snape?”  
  
Severus glanced up and blinked. He had been so deep in the trance of brewing a Burn Paste Madam Pomfrey had requested from him that he had not even heard Harry come in. But there he stood by the door of the potions lab, looking at him with a fragile and yet determined expression that Severus didn’t think he’d seen on his face since the start of the war.  
  
Severus turned around and settled himself on a stool next to the table he’d been working at, flicking his wand at the cauldron to hold everything inside motionless in the stage it was at. “Yes, Harry?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”  
  
Harry came a few steps closer. His eyes were large, and he was fidgeting from foot to foot like a child, instead of the fine young man he’d become. Severus watched him in increasing concern. _Did he find out about the itching powder I added to the mutt’s toilet seat?_  
  
“I—” Harry swallowed several times, which only sank Severus’s heart further. _Even worse, Black has made a fantastical accusation against me, and Harry believes it_.  
  
Then Severus reminded himself that he should have learned more trust than that. Perhaps Harry had learned that he had visited his Muggle family. Severus asked again, “Is something wrong?” in his quietest tone, and leaned forwards, trying to look helpful, patient, and wise.  
  
Harry broke suddenly, and ran to him. Severus, trying to brace himself for a punch or a shout in the face, found himself dealing with an embrace instead, which was so tight that it seemed Harry was jealous of every bit of air in his body.  
  
“I didn’t say it,” Harry was whispering, fervently. “But I trust you so much, and you _helped_ so much, and I don’t care what Sirius says or if my parents would have disapproved of my trusting you—” He lifted his head and looked Severus square in the eye, very small and very brave. “I love you.”  
  
Severus couldn’t say anything, because it would break the eggshell mood in the room. He lifted a hand and brushed it slowly through Harry’s hair, staring all the while into his eyes.  
  
He could read the emotions there; they were sincere enough that he did not need Legilimency. At the moment, he felt as if he might not need Legilimency ever again to tell what Harry was thinking.  
  
“Professor?” Harry whispered.  
  
 _He is afraid of its not being returned. Still._  
  
But Severus put aside his rage at what the Muggles had done, because now was not the time for that, and pulled Harry close so that his head rested on Severus’s shoulder. He stopped stroking his hair and instead held him tight, one arm around Harry’s shoulders, one around his waist.  
  
He opened his mouth, and the words were waiting there after all, though he had to whisper them so softly that he was not sure Harry would hear them. “I love you, too.”  
  
From the way Harry’s arms tightened around his body, he was sure Harry _had_ heard.  
  
Severus looked up and away from Harry, because he had to, and almost blindly outside. Not so blindly that he did not notice that the tree branch outside the window, which yesterday had contained only tightly furled buds, now shook with unfolding green leaves, reaching stubbornly for the sun.  
  
 _Life will not always be like this._  
  
But at the moment, it was, and Severus let out a breath that felt as if it had been penned up in his lungs for two decades.  
  
This was their spring.  
  
 **End.**


End file.
